


Miscellaneous Kisses & Meetings

by NineMagicks



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alcohol, Ficlet Collection, First Meetings, Fluff, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, One Shot Collection, Pining, Strangers to Lovers, Swearing, kiss prompts, meet ugly prompts, some sexual references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 18:53:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 24,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25700149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks
Summary: A collection of ficlets originally posted on tumblr.Miscellaneous Kisses:Empty lighthouses, romantic ambushes, a singular sausage, last-minute rehearsals, dusty rooms, hillsides in November, endless question marks, "borrowed" cars, soulmate spells, birthday cake and football pitches - these are stories about all sorts of kisses, and the unlikely ways we fall into them.Miscellaneous Meetings:an aeroplane, a parking space, an empty high street on a Sunday morning, a traitorous cat, a getaway car and a department store - these are stories about the ways two people come together, in all the worlds and every universe.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 66
Kudos: 236





	1. I: Land's End

**Author's Note:**

> **Miscellaneous Kisses:** This is a collection of Snowbaz ficlets originally posted on Tumblr - each chapter is a separate story, and they were all inspired by prompts from [this list](https://ninemagicks.tumblr.com/post/625176685597409280/kiss-prompt-list) by @promptedintowriting. Thank you to everyone who sent in prompts: nightimedreamersworld, caitybuglove23, themagnificenthedgehog, findingniamho, sbazzing, aralias, fitz_fool, bazzybelle, otherworldsivelivedin, krisrix. <3 I hope you like them!  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _cliffs, sea, bicycles_

**SIMON**

There’s a lighthouse in the sea, just out of reach.

That’s how it looks. Like it’s right there among the waves, rising out of them. As if the sea decided it needed a place to call home, and reckoned that spindly things with flashing lights on top would do the job.

“What do you think it’s like?” I ask.

It’s windy on the cliffs; Baz might not hear me.

He does.

“What do I think _what’s_ like, Snow?”

He’s got two coats, a hat and a scarf on, wrapped tight under his chin. It’s cold this high and close to the sea; I feel bad for dragging him out of the car, but we _did_ pay for parking. We came this far, so he might as well see it with me—Land’s End, right on the edge of Cornwall. Grass and wind and white horses, crashing against rock.

The sky’s grey, but that’s alright—I can still see for miles.

“You know, living in the lighthouse. How long are they stuck out there for?” The wind blows my hood back, salt streaking my hair. “Must get boring.”

Land’s End is exactly what it sounds like. The end of the land. On the way here I made a joke about it being the end of the world, but Penny called me morbid. _There’s plenty of world left to see, Simon. Don’t get blown over the edge._

“I imagine it’s automated these days,” Baz says quietly, hands shoved deep into pockets. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked him to stand out here with me. He could’ve stayed warm with Penny and Shepard in the tourist centre, picking out postcards and souvenirs. There’s a restaurant somewhere…maybe he’d like a cup of tea, something hot to warm his hands with. “I doubt there’s anyone out there.”

I look at the lighthouse again, the flash that comes and goes.

I used to think I was like that—here one minute, gone the next. Blinking out after the magic left me. Gone dark in the night like I had no purpose, no _use_ …

But a lighthouse…even when it goes dark it serves a purpose, right? And it lights up again, to bring the ships home.

I thought I was the cliffs at first. _The breaker._ Then I was both the sea and the sailor, struggling against the waves. _Drowned, the drowner._

But now I think I might be the lighthouse, or something like it.

(Does that make Baz the ship?) (There’s probably a stupid amount of metaphor there, and honestly, who’s got time for it.)

Baz is shivering. I put my arm around his waist—it’s a lot easier to do that these days, which we’re both glad for—and turn him back towards land. I know he was watching me; he always is. (Old habits, and all that.) I was watching the sea, and he was watching me, and one of the workers from the tourist centre was watching both of us, making sure we didn’t hop the fence and wander off the path.

He’s lovely, even when he’s cold. So, so lovely.

And it’s brilliant that he’s here. Even after all that happened we’re _here_ , standing in the mist and wind together.

I slide a hand around the back of his neck and pull him to me. If he’s cold I can’t help but warm him, and I love the sound he makes when he’s surprised. I want to coax it out of him for the rest of my life. (His life. _Our_ life.)

Baz tastes like salt. I bet I do, too. I kiss him gently because I know he likes that; he licks at my top lip because he knows I like _that_.

And I reckon we could stay here a while longer, if it weren’t so cold. Wait near the edge at the end of the world and just…be apart from everything. That’d be alright, wouldn’t it?

“Baz,” I say, as he leads me over cracked tarmac towards warmth and stodgy sandwiches. “Land’s End is where they do that bike ride from, yeah? All the way to the north of Scotland.”

“Land’s End to John o’ Groats. My father always said he’d do it one day.”

“Why doesn’t he?”

He shrugs. “It’s a long way to go, I suppose. But people do it.” He smiles at me, soft and graceful, and I’m reaching up before I know it, pressing kisses to his cheeks, his nose, his mouth. “People get there.”

_They do. They do get there._

I look back over my shoulder, just once. One more flash of light.

“Is there a lighthouse there, too? At the other end of the world. Or…end of Scotland.”

“Yes, there’s one near John o’ Groats. Duncansby Head, I believe?”

 _They get there. They follow the lighthouse_.

“We should go. To the other end.”

He raises an eyebrow at me, lips red from kissing.

“Alright, Snow. We’ll get there.”

I burrow my hand into his pocket so I can squeeze his fingers. He squeezes back. (Always does.)

“Land’s End…it can be a beginning too, right? If you think about it. It can be the point you start from.”

He squeezes again, shaking his head. I watch his hair catch the wind, longer than it’s ever been. (I love it.) (I love _him_.) “The things we find trapped in your maudlin mind, sometimes.”

He’s only playing. (I think.) I pull my hood up, though the wind tries to push it down again immediately.

“It’s not the end of the world, is all I’m saying. It doesn’t have to be.”

“No, Simon,” he murmurs, leaning in for another kiss to chase down the smile. “It doesn’t have to be an end.”


	2. I: Day 54

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _ambushes, tap water, pain_  
> 

**SIMON**

_Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it._

It’s a fair way of looking at things, if you ask me. Reasonable, _sensible_. How can you know you don’t like something unless you’ve slapped it in your mouth and swilled it around for a bit? Taken in all the taste and texture, y’know. And if it’s bad, you never do it again.

Applies to all sorts of things in life, if you think about it.

Baz doesn’t enjoy my logic. He says if he wanted to know what something was like, he’d _choose_ to investigate. He doesn’t need me following him around like an overdue electric bill, nagging him into surrender.

 _It’s only Marmite_ , I told him. _Nothing to be afraid of. Spread a bit on a slice of toast and go to town on it._

He told me to piss off. That’s how it usually goes. I attempt to ply him with Marmite (in a romantic way), and he moves to another room. The flat’s only so big; eventually he runs out of places to hide and locks himself in the bathroom. _It can’t be_ that _bad_ , I say— _your dad bloody loves the stuff._ But not even family loyalty can guilt-trip him into licking a bit off the back of my spoon.

On the first day I asked Baz to try Marmite, he laughed in my face.

On the second day, he sneered and called me a human cold sore.

On the third, he phoned Penny and shouted at her until she shouted at me.

We’re on day fifty-four now, but I’m not giving up. He should know what’s it like, living with Simon Snow. I’m _persistent_. I’ll wear you down like sugar between your teeth. Takes a while, but I get there eventually—find the bone, the root, the _nerve_.

Today’s the day, I reckon. _Fifty-three failures, one success_. I took a page out of Baz’s book and plotted like a mad man last night, and I don’t think there’s any way he’ll see it coming. _This time, I won’t be thwarted_.

I’m keeping things simple. No overthinking, just action.

I pounce as soon as he’s through the door, tired from work and humming to himself. He never says no to a kiss; there was a time when there weren’t enough between us, and now it’s like we’re trying to catch up. Outpourings…an avalanche of kisses, here, there and everywhere.

He’s delighted when I slide my hands around the back of his neck, pulling at his hair band. (I love it loose and messy.) I press my lips against his, firm and insistent, and he melts like he feels how much I missed him.

I should’ve set a timer, really. How many seconds pass before he realises? Two, three at most? His hands clamp down on my shoulders, and then he’s pushing me away, face twisted in horror.

“ _Snow_ , you despicable pustule! What _is_ that?”

I grin, and I’m confident my teeth are a horror—I can feel Marmite, sticky on my tongue. I lick my lips for effect (my mouth is _so_ dry and it’s _so_ worth it), as Baz goes staggering back towards the front door.

“Marmite,” I mutter. The roof of my mouth feels tacky, the entire world reduced to salt. “Day fifty four, yeah?”

He shakes his head, rushing to reach the kitchen. He sticks his head under the tap and gargles water, eyebrows drawn together in a menacing line above the gathering storm.

Shit. Gone and done it now, haven’t I?

(Worth it.)

“It tastes like a recently resurfaced airport runway,” he snarls, wiping his mouth on a sleeve. “Like the soles of old shoes, melting in the August heat. It tastes like _contrition_ , Snow. Salty, acrid penitence! If pain had a flavour, this would be it!”

“So you hate it, then? At least we _know_ , Baz. Isn’t it better to know?”

Honestly, I don’t mind if he hates it. This was the unanswerable question, right, and _I’ve found the answer_. Might even be able to sleep tonight.

Baz looks like he’ll never sleep again.

I scrape Marmite off my fingers. He watches me.

And then he licks a smear of the brown stuff, right off his own lip.

“It’s…Snow, I…” I close the space between us. Cautious, _hoping_. “I…don’t know if I _hate_ it, Snow. But it’s not good,” he adds in a panic. “I’m sure of that. No good can come of this.”

It ends quietly, like a kept secret.

I stroke his cheek with the back of my hand. He sighs and looks deeply, desperately unhappy. Baz kisses me despite the Marmite, perhaps even because of it.

He _loves_ it. He loves _me._ (He must. Nobody else would get away with a Marmite ambush.)

“It’s good on cashews,” I whisper between kisses. “They sell them in little foil packets.”

He’s still unsure, but he’s getting there. (The enamel’s crumbling.)

“Never tried them,” he mutters, backing out of the kiss. And there must be something in the way I look at him— _conspiring, colluding_ —that scares him off, because he’s shuffling into the living room, throwing his coat over his shoulder to slow me down.

“I can get us some!”

“No.”

“Cashews are small, so you could just have one and—”

“Snow, I’d rather not.”

“—stick it in your—”

_“Don’t you dare.”_

Baz shuts the door, but he can’t hide forever. (I’m cooking spaghetti bolognese tonight; he’ll have to come out and supervise at some point.) (Wait. I could have put Marmite _in the sauce_ …)

“I’ll get us a bag of those cashews, then.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“You’ll _love_ them. Mega salty nuts—you can’t go wrong.”

He doesn’t reply.

Day one of getting Baz to try Marmite cashews, and I’d say we’re off to a good start.


	3. I: Firelight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _ash, twigs, one sausage_  
> 

**BAZ**

In the darkest part of night, Snow takes me out into starlight.

“Come on,” he says, reaching for my hand. “Come and see.”

When he first suggested camping in the hills, I may have overreacted. (If storming from the room whilst phoning Bunce, complaining loudly and at length about her flatmate’s desire to end me in _the countryside_ of all places, can be considered an overreaction.) (In hindsight, it may not have been my finest moment.)

I did all I could to protest— _you know I detest unattended foliage! Marshmallows are fine as they are, they don’t require sentimental toasting! Death to baked beans, a meal they doth not make! My love, be true with me, will there be plumbing of a certain standard?_

He ignored me and went to Millets to buy a tent.

After all the worry, I must admit, being here with him and no one else…it’s far more than I expected. (Not that I would say such things aloud.)

Clean air, the chirping of miscellaneous wildlife, a creaking of canvas as the night breeze knocks it one way, then the next…it’s unexpected and quite marvellous, really. I’m far enough from London to forget the tinny sound of the announcer’s voice on the Tube platform, reminding me to step back from the edge. _I am minding all sorts of gaps out here, and I like it._

A break from the city, from work and the rush of the world. _Thank you, Simon._

In the morning he’ll stretch his wings. (Quite literally—in flight, he’s a sight to behold.) And when afternoon arrives we’ll walk out into the hills, seeking views we haven’t seen before. He knows, I think, that he’s my view of choice; I can hardly focus on the fields and fauna, for all the life that’s in his eyes.

Camping has brought out a brightness in Snow that I hadn’t known was there. He’s an efficient supervisor of camp fires, foil-wrapped potatoes our fare. Ash in the air, firelight in his eyes…he even had me singing juvenile songs this morning— _ditties_ , if you will—whilst he strummed a few chords on a guitar I didn’t know he owned.

He belongs here, somehow…out in the quiet, the night. I should tell him that— _Snow, these hills suit you_.

Instead, I hold his grasping hand and follow him into the clearing, twigs snapping underfoot to mark our path.

“Look, Baz. There are stars.”

It’s the understatement of the century, but he’s being so sickeningly earnest, I don’t have it in me to conjure a snide remark. Instead I humour him, tipping my head back to take in the expanse of sky, blanket close around my shoulders.

“So there are.”

Above us is arranged an inkwell of deepest blue and bright, the moon languid above it all, shining silver over Snow’s upturned smile. He leans in to me and I lift the blanket, pulling it tight around us both, his arms under mine.

“Beautiful,” he says, and I suppose he’s talking about the stars.

“Beautiful,” I say, and I’m talking about him.

_Sun, moon, stars and Snow. Tell me, what’s the difference?_

“I’m glad we’re here,” he whispers, and I hasten to agree.

It would be a shame, I think, not to share a kiss whilst we’re out here, audience to an argent sky. I turn to see what he makes of it and find him already there, pressing in close, bringing his mouth to meet mine. I catch his breath with my own, and we stay like that for what feels like a season, kisses soft as the breeze in the trees.

 _Simon Snow, I would keep us like this always, if I could. Wind under wings, moon our only light_.

But tomorrow will come, and after that, the looming demands of Monday. Reality, luring us back to the world…still, we needn’t worry just yet. Simon is inescapably here, hands pressed against my back, moving his chin in that delightful way of his. The kisses are light like the whispers we shared earlier, huddled together by the fire.

“Thank you,” I say. We move apart after another age has passed, a second lifetime. “This was a good idea.”

He smiles up at me. “You sure about that? It’s beans for dinner tomorrow, you realise. And breakfast is a sausage.”

“A sausage?” I ask. “One, singular sausage? No plural?”

“No plural,” he laughs, resting his head under my chin. “Just the one sad, single sausage.”

“Well,” I sigh, “it’ll do.”

Before returning to the tent I’ll sneak away, seeking my own sort of midnight sustenance. When I get back he’ll be waiting for me, soft and tired in the lamp’s glow, listless in his sleeping bag. _Baz_ , he’ll say. _Let’s go to bed._

We will.

And when the sun comes again, he’ll rebuild the fire. Somehow, it’ll feel warmer than yesterday’s and today’s. Morning air resting crisp on our tongues as ashes touch upon his curls, dancing around the lip of my mug…

I can’t wait. I truly can’t.

I tighten my arms around him and lift his face to mine again. Another kiss, another way to say thank you.

Tomorrow night he’ll ask me to join him under starlight again, and I’ll go. A willing prisoner led by his hands, his lips, the moon. I’d go anywhere with him—wander far along each makeshift road and stony path, trailing off into strange and stranger hillsides. _Through this life and the next, Simon._ _For you I would endure all manner of countryside predicaments, adequate plumbing be damned_.

“They look nice,” he murmurs. “Don’t you think so?”

I look up into a sky drenched in silver.

“Nice enough, I’d say.”

It is, I know, so much more than enough.

_This is everything._

And in the moonlight, at last, I let him know.


	4. I: Amateur Dramatics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _lines, dressing rooms, rehearsals_  
> 

**BAZ**

“Like this?”

“Like that.”

Snow is in my dressing room, hands cupping my face, script forgotten on the floor. We’ve been kissing for what might have been seconds, minutes, or most of the evening—hard to say, when all I’ve ever known narrows to this. _His sigh, his warmth, his kiss._

 _“I’ll come to your room after rehearsals,”_ he said earlier, splitting packed sandwiches with shaking hands. _“We should practice, Baz. Opening night’s tomorrow and we need to get it right. Don’t want to look a prat on stage in front of your family, do you?”_

It was impossible to fake a misunderstanding. I’d been avoiding this for weeks— _the kissing scene_. There’s only one in the play, and it’s ours; I asked the director to overlook it during our meets. He bought my excuse—that it would be better, more _honest and genuine_ , if we were also surprised on the night. (None more surprised than me, I’m sure.) (The mere contemplation of kissing Snow is enough to drive entire scenes from my mind.)

I knew the moment I set eyes on him at auditions, having already secured the part of romantic lead, that I was done for. He blew us out of the water…and I thought then, knowing what our roles called for, that I’d never make it out of this production alive. _I’m going to drown in him_ , I lamented. _If I kiss him I’ll die._ (I was _made_ for the stage, you’ll agree.)

It was best to keep my distance and preserve my sanity. During meetings, rehearsals, cast dinners—eyes down, kept as characters but never people. Never _real._

But Simon Snow, well…he’s unquestionably real. And demanding. Never has a more entitled creature walked the boards of Watford Amateur Dramatics. (Or WADford, as the flyers regrettably proclaim.) Anyone would think he’s the Chosen One of theatre, here to lead us into the spotlight with his own creative interpretation of the word _poise_.

One might be fooled into thinking he _wanted_ to kiss me, with the way he’s been pestering for time to go over our lines, away from the others…

…and finally, the night before the play opens, I’ve run out of reasons and excuses.

“Softly,” Snow is saying, rubbing at his neck. “It said we have to do it softly. That’s the, um—the suggestion? The prompt? The…well, that’s what it says.”

He’s rambling, nervous. (I can sympathise.) I haven’t told him that this is my first kiss, and that’s half the reason I was avoiding it. I suspect he’s done this before, but I suppose he _is_ well known amongst second-rung theatrical circles.

I wonder, does he invade all of his cast mates’ dressing rooms the night before the curtains rise, or am I special? (Have I, in fact, been chosen?)

He follows his memorised instructions, my eyes on his lips as he presses them against mine once more— _softly, softly, like you’re all that’s left alive._ And when he pulls back to ask impossible questions— _Baz, like that? Is it believable_?—I barely manage to resist making a fool of myself. _I almost believe, Snow. I almost, almost do._

“Sufficient,” I croak pitifully, relieved there’s a chair behind me to take my weight, legs suddenly turned traitor. I wonder, briefly, if anything else in life will ever seem sufficient, knowing now what Simon’s kisses are like.

“That’s good, then.”

We share various other scenes together. Drama, a fight, rekindling, reunion…but he doesn’t ask to go over lines for any others. He came here solely, it seems, to kiss—and I let myself fall into it again: _softly, softly, softly_.

It’s the sweetest sort of torture.

And when he stands in the doorway, caught between leaving and seeing where our lips lead, I twist the knife in further. (Because I am, at heart, a _terrible_ actor. Everyone can see it but him.)

“Why don’t you stay? We can…rehearse. We should run through the rest of our lines, just to check. Just to be sure.”

He dithers on the threshold for several minutes, trapped between here and there. But I’ve come to know Snow rather well over the past months; I know how he approaches unpleasant decisions. It’s akin to bludgeoning a tree with an axe until it topples, taking down all in its path—if he wanted to leave, he would.

 _But he stays, he’s staying, he_ stayed.

My dressing room door closes, and I wonder if we’re the only ones left in the building. Has the rest of the cast left for the night, to lie sleeplessly in anticipation of tomorrow? I’ll be with them later, I suspect, making peace with the ceiling. The memory of _softly, softly, softly_ a lull against my eyelids.

“Which scene should we start with?” he asks, hands in his pockets.

“Whichever you like,” I reply, bringing a glass of tepid water to my face. I suddenly feel as though I’m speaking through sawdust. “Choose one. No doubt they all require work.”

He retrieves his script from the floor, and we’re deliberately looking at everything but each other. “Page forty-one,” he says quietly, cheeks tinged claret. He clears his throat, tries again with added confidence. “Just to be _sure_.”

I glance at him. I know which scene awaits us on page forty-one—we’ve been over it a few times tonight.

_Softly, softly. All that’s left alive._

“That’s fine,” I manage as he crosses the room, and I finally let go of the chair.

This time, the kisses aren’t as hesitant. They wouldn’t pass on the stage, wouldn’t do for the scene.

But it sends me there—a place where there’s only the two of us and our lines ring true. The rest that’s said—outside, in real life, bows taken before strangers—is one long, unappealing lie I ignore.

We kiss, and neither of us stay in character.

_I believe, I believe, I believe._


	5. I: y o u + m e

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _window, wall, memory_  
> 

**SIMON**

It doesn’t feel like years since we were last here—more like seconds, minutes at most. Me, chucking my trainers across the room because I couldn’t be arsed to get up and put them away…him, lying on his side so he wouldn’t have to watch.

Arguments we’d have, the Anathema the only thing between us that could keep us apart. Sight for sore eyes, weren’t we? A daft pair of numpties, angry at everything.

My old desk’s right where I left it, pushed up against the wall. I can almost imagine my bag there, contents thrown across the wood, a tale of unfinished essays and wonky handwriting.

Baz’s handwriting was always perfect. Still is. Swirls and loops, like the letters don’t want to reach an end…there was a time when I would’ve given anything for _this_ to have no end. One more month, one more term, one more year. I thought things could only be worse away from Watford—it meant safety, in a way. Familiarity. The only home I had.

But I have another home now. Somewhere _with_ Baz, against all odds. Despite everything along the way.

We were just kids back then. Didn’t know what we were doing, half the time. (Or at least I didn’t. Maybe Baz wasn’t quite as clueless.) (If he was, he’d never bloody admit it.) I’d say that if I went through it all again I’d do things differently, but I don’t know.

Even if it was hard sometimes, even when it was bad…

…got us here, didn’t it? Together, not apart.

Everything we’ve been through brought us to this.

“Students don’t stay up here anymore,” Baz is saying. “The rest of Mummers remains a dormitory, but not the turret. We were two of the last, Snow.”

 _Two of the last_.

“It did get cold up here, yeah? And too hot in the summer. Maybe the new Head listens to complaints.”

We smile slyly at each other, Baz lifting an eyebrow.

Penny’s the new Headteacher at Watford School of Magicks, taking over after her mum. She starts next week. The week after, autumn term begins—in Baz’s words, _an articulated lorry’s worth of luck to you, Bunce._ She’s going to be a wicked teacher. (She’s just the right mix of brilliant and brilliantly scary.)

“It wasn’t all bad.” I run a finger over my desk, tracing patterns in the dust. The part of me that didn’t change and never will spells it out: _y o u + m e._ “Found each other, didn’t we?”

Baz hums in agreement, frowning at the furniture as if it’s personally offending him. “I don’t remember this chair being here. And wasn’t there a table between the two beds? With a drawer. The students after us must have had a jolly good time rearranging things.”

He’s genuinely pissed off, which amuses me. (I keep my face straight so he doesn’t get pissed off at _that_ , too.)

“It’s alright, Baz. Not ours anymore, is it?”

He seems to feel better, pulling open empty doors and drawers, and peering under things as though we might have left pieces of ourselves there. “Suppose not. There’s certainly no trace.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that…”

I pull my desk away from the wall, leaving scrape marks on the stones. I find the proof right where I left it—my name, scratched into the wall. Evidence that I was here for years longer than I ever expected to be. (For a long time, death seemed more of a certainty than breakfast. Possibly why I never bothered revising for exams.) (Also explains why breakfast was always such an event.)

“Very elegant,” Baz sneers. “A charming legacy to leave.”

“Sod off,” I mutter, pulling him over to the window. “Shows I was here, doesn’t it?”

He’s smiling, so I pull him closer. He fends me off but it’s half-hearted—his hands end up in my hair, and then we’re kissing instead of fighting, as the sun goes down around us.

“I left a mark too,” he whispers, lips light against my forehead. “And I don’t mean the bruises and broken bones.”

I touch the end of his nose and smirk. _“This_ broken bone?”

He rolls his eyes and lifts the curtain. Carved faintly into the woodwork I find _his_ name, and a surprise scratched beneath it.

“You wrote my name too? Bloody hell Baz, you even _graffiti_ in cursive.”

“Yes, well, _standards_. You made quite the impression on me.” He leans against the wall, and I’m aware of how much older we are now. How we’re not what we were before.

He wrote two names.

_(This Baz is mine.)_

Even then, when we were horrible to each other.

_(But the other Baz…the Baz before…)_

Even though I only wrote one.

_(He was mine, too. Always was.)_

I’m kissing him before I can think further into it. My hands are dusty—it’s on his face, tangling with his hair. We’ve done a lot of this over this years, and it’s never less than wonderful.

“Snow,” he murmurs, teeth touching my lower lip. “Would you like to help me with something?”

I pull back, though I’d rather keep the kiss going a bit longer. “With what?”

He darts across the room, kicking at the leg of his old desk with a shoe that’s far too expensive for such things. “Between us we can dismantle this and throw it out of the window. Give those blasted merwolves one last thing to howl about.”

“No fucking way, Baz.”

It takes a good old fashioned ten-minute wrestle, plus five or six more kisses, to turn him away from his plot. We’ve made a mess of our old room, tripping and spinning our way through the past, dust swirling like unsettled memory.

I kiss him there—by the door, by the window. Carve his name next to mine on the wall.

Here—by my old bed, by his. Again, with my back to the wardrobe. One more kiss as the past passes between us.

Before we leave we stand and look around, breathing in age and gone time. _When we were here I had no idea what was coming_. I tighten my hold on Baz’s hand and press a final kiss into his shoulder, knocking the dust off his shirt with my fingertips. _I had no idea how good it would be._

We go but we’re not gone. Not quite.

Names on the wall and window frame, marking the page.


	6. I: Verdigris Viewpoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _hills, scruffy coat, silver_  
> 

**BAZ**

I watch Snow fade in the evening light as he leaves me. He’s wearing a patched coat he picked out at a jumble sale, hat pulled down over his ears to stave off the chill. _Memorise him—what he’s wearing, how he creased as he crumbled. The sixth of November, Basilton—we’re off by one day, but nevertheless. Remember, remember._

November’s not the best time of year to be drifting about windy hillsides, but we aren’t the only ones up here this late—a couple of dog walkers passed by as Snow tore pieces from me, the odd jogger with a death wish veering too close, then swerving away at his words.

_You don’t deserve this, Baz. You should be happy._

_You should want to be happy without me._

I told him what I could, what worthless words would form through shaking lips. _I love you, Simon_ —that stumbling confession I _couldn’t_ find, when perhaps it would have been enough to stop him.

Simon Snow brought me into the hills to break up with me. To inform me that, after consideration, he’d declared himself nothing. No sort of thing worth bothering with.

And then he walked away.

I consider running after him, tearing at his coat sleeves until he turns to take back this foolishness. _I’m only twenty, Snow—there are many mistakes left ahead of me, and I want to make them with you. Only you._

Instead I watch him go, the ache in my chest threatening to burst, leaving me bloodied upon the viewpoint.

_It’s over. It’s done._

When I turn, forlorn and distraught, it’s to see a strange, familiar figure barring the path. There’s more silver in his hair than bronze, but there’s little room for doubt—he’s wearing the same scruffy coat under a green-white scarf. (Which has me wondering if, at some point in the far future, he becomes a Celtic fan.)

It’s impossible, and yet I see it.

_Simon Snow,_ alive and shivering. Decades older than the one who left me, mere moments ago.

I’m aware that I’m gaping, rendered genuinely speechless for the first time. If I get close enough, will there be lines framing his eyes? Has this version of Simon lived a life of smiles and laughter?

_I hope so._

_Simon, I hope you’ve been happy._

I go to him, legs stiff. _I’m here_ , I want to scream, _right where you left me. Falling apart like a book with no overarching plot._

“Sunset on the path,” the new Simon says. “Verdigris Viewpoint, sixth of November.” He looks at me hopefully, and I know he’s no stranger at all.

“Remember, remember,” I whisper. Over my shoulder I glimpse Simon— _my_ Simon, today’s Simon—retreating over the crest of the hill.

And then I let myself fall.

I kiss the new Simon like I longed to kiss the other—suddenly, with no desire to let go. He kisses me back like it’s been countless days—no, _decades_ —since he’s seen me. This Simon doesn’t waste time with words; his lips move against mine in familiar patterns. Like he _knows_ me, or a version of me.

Like he’s been seeking this moment for years.

The kiss mirrors our first in the forest—hurting, wild, wanting. I lose myself in it, moving against him like I long to. As I’d die to do so, every day after this.

_If he’ll have me. If he still wants me._

“Baz...” this different Simon says, as we pause for breath. “I’m sorry.”

He closes his eyes, and I find new freckles there. Age marks and fine lines that have only made him finer. How old is he? Forty, fifty? I ache to be closer, but when I lean in, he puts a hand to my mouth.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “It’s you. It’s me.”

_I don’t know why and I’ve even less idea how_. _But if this is the you I can keep, I’ll take it. Yours in all times, even those less than linear._

“You’ve got to go after him.” He nods over my shoulder. “Stop him. _Me._ That...that _prat_. Tell him what you’re thinking, what you _feel_. Otherwise it’s a really fucking long time, Baz, and it’s _hard_. It’s...it’s not...”

_It’s not good._ Maybe that’s what he means to say. _The future._

_It’s not good without you._

_“_ He doesn’t know how to tell you, but he’ll listen.” Hands in pockets, eyes pleading. “He doesn’t want this. I _never_ wanted it.”

I swallow, running my hands through greying curls, brushing my thumb over the dip in his chin. Future Snow doesn’t shave as often as he could, and even after all that complaining, he didn’t get any taller. His voice is gruff, a creak in the door.

I like this. I like who he becomes.

But I don’t like the _pain_. His eyes are storytellers, and there are few happy endings written here.

“Will you believe me?” I ask, thinking how he’d looked as he left. _Happiness. Go and find it. I can’t give it to you._

“Yes,” the new Snow says, nodding frantically. “Yes, I’ll believe you. I just need to hear it. Shake me out of my own head.”

I let him dip his face between my neck and shoulder to breathe in what he finds there. He brings his lips to mine again and I get the feeling he’s kissing someone else—another Baz, perhaps, who he once left behind on a far-gone hillside.

Decades, they dissipate as he makes up for lost time. And before the kiss ends, I’ve memorised each new line on his face.

“Verdigris Viewpoint. Six on the sixth,” he says, looking around. “Forgot the date, but I found you in the end.”

There are tears in his eyes. Heart, a hammer in my chest.

“Took your bloody time,” I say, and then I learn that of all that changes in Simon, his laughter stays the same.

“Go,” he says quietly, tears spilling down weather-worn cheeks. He wipes at his face with a tattered coat sleeve, bought at a jumble sale a lifetime ago. “Catch up with me. Tell me what a prat I am, and don’t let me look back. Please, Baz—I don’t want to look back anymore. I didn’t then.”

“I will,” I promise, already turning. “I’ll catch up. Call you a prat. I can do that.” Before I’m gone, I see the faded Snow pull a wand from his coat, pointing it at his own chest.

**_“At the appointed hour,”_** he says, checking for nosy dog-walkers. He’s more than faded now. A shadow, an unmade memory. “Thank you, Baz.”

“Six on the sixth,” I whisper, as blue eyes fritter into mist.

It’s minutes, not decades, before I find Simon on the path ahead. I catch the end of his sleeve between fingertips and draw him to me.

“Snow,” I say, “there’s something I need you to hear.”

And when he turns, instead of the past, I find a future in his face.


	7. I: Q&A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _words, silence, punctuation_  
> 

**BAZ**

We’re having a quiet day, Snow and I.

It’s not the worst thing we’ve done with our clothes on, and he does seem to be enjoying it. As he so eloquently intoned last week, _aren’t words just the fucking worst sometimes, Baz? Do you ever want them to sod off and leave you alone?_

I can’t say I’ve felt like that, though I _do_ like today. This specific sortie into silence may not be voluntary—sick to death of us talking over her dire excuse for a rom-com ( _Notting Hill_ it was _not_ ), Bunce spelled us mute with a dash of _**Mind your language**_ —but it’s not entirely unwelcome.

At midnight our voices will recover. We’ll also be able to write sensibly again—Bunce’s vengeful hex has knocked _all_ language from our heads. When I put pen to paper it’s only scribbles and shapes—Simon studied it for a while, but even _his_ peculiar mind couldn’t cope.

Whilst we wait, we’ve established a rudimentary system of communication. Snow has managed not to hurt himself, and the quiet’s proving restorative, his contented sighs saying more than any soliloquy could.

Hand squeezes on the sofa are our commas, calls for pause and rest; my head on his shoulder is a full stop, arms tight like a deadline.

My favourite aspect of our new system is the questioning. This morning we worked through dozens of different kisses, each assigned a role. Brief touches to the back of a hand (bullet points, almost) are loving demands, whereas slow and soft means _I don’t understand_ — _show me, show me._ Faster, harder kisses are disagreements, and the deeper ones? The ones I wish wouldn’t end...?

Well, there are some things we never find words for.

This morning, after we’d grasped the depths of Bunce’s cunning, Snow was feeling especially curious. He raised a taunting eyebrow at me and left a kiss on my collarbone, thumbs pressing into my hips. He looked at me hopefully, and I thought perhaps he was asking if I wanted more. ( _Cereal_. More cereal, it transpired, after several grave misunderstandings.)

We lay on the sofa and watched repeats of old cartoons, sharing a spoon. He kissed behind my ear to ask if it was alright, and I kissed the end of his nose to say _yes, of course. Isn’t this lovely beyond language?_

At lunchtime he was downright quizzical. Legs bracketing mine on the sofa like speech marks, his tongue spelling out everything I hadn’t the vocabulary to express...of all the times, mid-argument, I’ve wished I could mute Simon Snow, I never imagined it like this.

He was even quieter after dinner. His stream of questions died to a trickle, and Snow seemed content with what he already knew; he let me kiss him in the kitchen as we cleared away plates, his lips saying something like _I like this_. _We’re here, we’re alright, we’re happy._

We’re back on the sofa now, awaiting our voices, and it’s not such a bad place to be. My hands move in lazy circles through his hair, and with the day’s demands behind us, queries creep into our conversation once more.

_Here?_ he asks, his breath tickling my ear, an avenue of kisses along my throat.

_Yes, there._

_Is this enough?_ go his teeth, grazing a shoulder.

_Never, ever enough._

What Snow should realise is that if _his_ kisses are questions, demanding and urgent, mine are answers.

He asks and I retaliate. I give and I give. Another kiss, designed to leave him speechless. (Well, more so than we already are.)

And when our voices come back just after midnight, we’re _crossing the lexicon_ , as it were. (Simon’s phone bursts to life at precisely the wrong time, of souse, underlining the untimely interruption.)

“Penny,” Simon groans, retrieving his mobile from the depths of the carpet. His voice is dry and rasping from disuse—he runs to the bathroom, and I’m privy to long minutes of inelegant gargling. When he’s done he stands in the doorway, water dripping off his nose. “I don’t ampersand why she’s calling. Already won, hasn’t she?”

I frown. _Ampersand? Does he even know what that is?_

“Bunce,” I hiss into the phone. “May I asterisk what you’re playing at?” I try to force the correct word out— _ask, ask, ask_ —but it refuses.

_No._

_She wouldn’t._

_(...could she?)_

_What was the spell she used yesterday? Mind your language...?_

_“Enjoying your mild magickal aftereffects, Basil?”_ she taunts, as merry as Snow let loose in a bakery. _“Don’t worry, everything should be normal in a day or two. Until then, you’ll be worryingly more articulate than usual.”_

“A day or two? Put a full stop to this right now!”

_“But I thought you loved to be punctual, Basilton?”_

“Dash it all, Bunce, it’s not the same thing. You are, and I quote, a—”

She cackles and ends the call. I’m left staring at Simon in disbelief.

“This is an apostrophe, Baz!” _Catastrophe_. “I can’t underscore how much I’m _not_ enjoying this.” _Understate. And Snow, I commiserate._

“Let’s be quiet,” I suggest. “Lowercase our voices, before we encounter unpleasant backslash from the spell.” I grimace. My thoughts _have_ tended towards the linguistic today, but I hadn’t realised its prevalence. _Penelope Bunce, the great spellchecker._

Simon flops down on the sofa, legs over mine like quote marks, making an adage of me. “We could colon her back,” he suggests, grinding his teeth. “Get it out of our systems, y’know. Who’s Mark and why’s he asking all these questions? Be **bold**. I want _everything_ I _say_ to _be_ _in_ italics. Um...forward slash? Pound sign? Wavy hyphen thing I don’t know the name of?”

“I tilde you to be quiet _,_ you wretch _._ ”

Later— _much_ later, when we’ve forgotten what we’re angry about—I endure more of his silent searching. His tongue drags a hyphen down my throat; I trace capitals on his chest.

_More?_ he asks without asking.

[It’s better when we’re quiet.] /Snow’s dubious punctuation is deafening./

_More_ , I reply, finding a stray question mark in the curve of his spine. Our dialogue becomes a negotiation, each wanting more of the other.

Though the metaphor may be clumsy, our kisses make for a graceful epilogue.

An ellipsis, trailing off into quiet.

...

..

.


	8. I: Strawberry Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _cars, dark, mosh pits_  
> 

**SIMON**

His name’s Baz and he drives a posh car.

He says it’s not _his_ car. “It belongs to my father. He doesn’t know I took it and Malcolm will cry if it gets scratched, so behave yourself.”

I’m not that interested in the car. (Although it’s fucking _nice_.) (As in, wouldn’t-be-caught-dead-driving-it-to-Aldi nice.) I’m having trouble opening the door and he complains into my mouth, breaking the latest in a parade of hot, wine-sweet kisses.

“Should we get in?” I ask, thinking we definitely should.

Basilton _—_ his real name, which I’m banned from using _—_ points a bossy eyebrow at me. We wait as others from the gig walk by, hunting cars, and then the back door opens with a twist of his wrist. (A _painful_ twist.)

“Still hurts?”

I follow his stupidly long legs across leather seats. It smells as expensive in here as I’d hoped. (Feared?)

He’s cradling his hand, frowning at a gathering bruise. “It hurts.”

“You shouldn’t have punched that bloke.”

“He pushed you. We were in the middle of a conversation.”

“We were standing next to the _mosh pit_.”

He rolls his eyes. He’s not very nice to be honest, but it’s doing things to me.

“Forgive me for expecting _Dryest Spell—_ horrendous, by the way—to attract spectators of a non-violent nature.”

“Spectators? It’s not a documentary! It’s _music._ It was...it was _art._ And you made us leave before the end of the set. _”_

He grabs my t-shirt with his good fist and lifts it off. “I’ll show you art.” He pulls me against him, and I’m wishing I had gum or travel toothpaste or _something_ to get the stale taste of strawberries out of my mouth. Baz bought a glass of fruity wine at the gig, sniffed it, and refused to touch it. ( _A sad end for good grapes_.) I drank the wine for him (it made my lips pink and fizzy) and asked if I could interest him in a flat cup of cola instead.

He snogged me and told me to shut up. He does that a lot.

I run my hands along his arms, knocking his wrist. “Shit, sorry! You alright?”

“Adding to my bruises, Snow?”

_Snow._ After I asked what a bloke like him was doing in a shithole like Mummers, he demanded to see my driving licence. Too confused to argue, I handed it over, and he hasn’t stopped laughing at me since.

My fingers catch the tear in his shirt where a bouncer ripped it, saving him from the mosher.

“Sorry.” It was a good shirt. Floral. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

He quiets me with a kiss, finger brushing my lips. I’m in a stranger’s car, on top of said stranger, ears ringing after a long night of loud music...

...and don’t get me wrong, the band were _great._

But right now, I don’t think I could recall a single lyric.

“Turn the radio on,” he gasps around my mouth. “I want a soundtrack.”

He hands me keys and I lean between the front seats, messing with the dashboard. (So. Many. Buttons.) The radio kicks into life, guitars and drums escorting a melody that feels familiar.

Apparently _Dryest Spell_ are providing tonight’s romantic ambience. Serenading me as I get off with a fit, scary (scarily fit?) bloke in his dad’s stolen Jag.

“No, no, _no_ ,” Baz rages, flinging his shirt in my face. “Turn that racket _off._ ”

I do as I’m told, clambering into the backseat. “Why were you even at the gig?”

I find my crumpled t-shirt on the floor, but Baz steals it. (Hope he doesn’t notice how sweaty it is.) (Am I supposed to wear _his_ shirt?)

“My cousin’s in the band,” he says, bored. As if that isn’t the coolest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.

“Your _cousin_? Who, the drummer?” He _did_ have flowery tattoos.

“No. Bassist.”

“ _Dev_ ,” I grin. “You’re related to Dev? That’s bloody cool.”

“It is the farthest thing in the world from _cool,_ I assure you.”

I lean in to see if I can find any wine on his lips. (I don’t; he didn’t even take a sip.) (I keep trying.) The kiss goes on and I go with it, wondering if we’re closing in on steamed-up-windows territory; I’ve got my hands under his (my) t-shirt, when we hear voices passing close to the car.

Baz sits up, peering through the window in a panic.

“What is it?”

“Be quiet,” he seethes, ducking down as two figures walk by. It’s too dark for details, but I can see a man and a woman; the bloke’s got blond hair trapped under a beanie, and the woman…wait, isn’t that…?

“She was at the gig,” I whisper. “Proper legend. Going mad in the mosh pit—bicycle kicks and all sorts. No one could get close.”

“That,” Baz spits, “is my _aunt_ , and if she notices the car, this won’t end well. She must have gone to heckle my sewer rat of a cousin.”

We wait _—_ in a _very_ compromising position _—_ for the voices to fade. When they do, I dip my lips to his wrist, kissing the bruise there. He looks at me, thoroughly unimpressed.

Next thing you know, I’ve got his belt undone and my arse out in all its glory...and fingers come tapping on the glass above our heads.

I freeze. Baz freezes. _Time_ freezes.

“Oi!” comes a scratchy voice. _The frenzied mosher._ “Basilton Pitch, I know it’s you! Nicky, look at this—a sweaty chav’s debauching my nephew.”

I look at Baz. He looks at me.

The next minute passes in a blur.

Baz disappears into the driver’s seat before I’ve got my pants pulled up, and I’m pretty sure his aunt gets an eyeful as the Jag awakens. We go skidding towards freedom. (Or prison. It’s a toss up, really.)

“She’s furious,” I splutter, holding on to the head rest for dear life. “Will she tell your dad?”

We escape the car park and immediately hit a red light; I notice Baz’s mobile in one of the cup holders, vibrating angrily. Climbing into the passenger seat, I belt up and watch in horror as names appear on the screen: FIONA, MALCOLM, DAPHNE, FIONA, FIONA, FIONA.

“She rides a motorbike—do keep an eye out.”

I should flee and leave him to his fate, but instead I reach for his wrist and bring it to my mouth. I kiss him there again, and we endure a weird amount of eye contact.

“Where are we going?”

I don’t know where he lives. I’d been planning to ask for a cheeky lift home, but now’s not the time.

“My flat’s nearby; we’ll go into hiding. Ever been in a getaway car, Snow?”

The traffic lights turn green, and we go. We get stuck behind a double-decker and I grow paranoid, throwing dirty looks at every moped that crawls past. Baz rests his injured hand on my leg and glances over to smile.

_I’m on the run with a wine snob, a familial car thief. The kind of person who starts fights in mosh pits._

_This might be the best night of my life._

Between us, his phone lights up again. “It appears my life ends tomorrow,” he says lightly. “Care to join me in my final hours? I’ve got wine on the counter and music that isn’t _Dryest Spell_.”

_Last chance, Snow. One opportunity to escape._

"Strawberry wine?”

“No.” He licks his lips. “A full-bodied Bordeaux.”

_Sold._ We drive into the night condemned, a crime in progress.

Later, we pull up in a quiet side street. He leans across the gearstick, and I accept a kiss like it’s some sort of bargain. A price to be paid.

“Alright, Snow?”

“Yeah. This your place? _Yours_ , mind. Not your dad’s place that you’re borrowing without telling him.”

“It’s mine, you ulcer.”

I get a good look at his arse in those jeans (illegal _,_ like the rest of him) as he exits the car. We climb the steps watching for hostile motorbikes, two fated fugitives .

I wrap kisses around his wrist as he unlocks the door. His eyes linger on my wine-stained lips. (Claret?)

“Will anyone look for you?” he whispers.

“No. Maybe work, on Monday. Yours ‘til then, if you want.”

He smirks and it’s wicked, a study in lawlessness.

And if this is my sentence for deserting the gig three songs too early, then Your Honour, _I go willingly_.


	9. I: S.W.A.L.K.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Wednesdays, bloody Gareth, soulmates?_

**SIMON**

I hate Wednesdays. They get in the middle of things and piss everybody off. If anything ridiculous happens at Watford, you can bet your arse it’s Wednesday.

Today, a genius named Gareth thought it’d be fucking _hilarious_ to spell everyone in the dining hall with _**Sealed with a loving kiss**_. It’s one of those ridiculous “true love” spells—you can’t use your own magic until you’ve found the person you’re dying to kiss.

But it’s not like you can go around snogging your classmates at random. There’s a one kiss limit—the magic _knows_ who you’re meant to play tonsil tennis with, and it won’t let you near anybody else. I found that out the hard way when I threw myself at Penny in the courtyard. (Worth a try.) It was like smacking into an invisible wall; I fell into the bushes, crushing the biscuits I’d been saving for an emergency snack. (Fucking. _Gutted_.)

“Simon,” she despaired. “ _Think_ about who you’d like to kiss. You can’t keep ambushing people.”

_Can’t I? Do you want to test that theory, Pen?_

It’s alright for her; she wasn’t in the dining hall. Her magic’s completely fine. I wouldn’t normally give a shit about prank spells, but everyone started running around like headless chickens, and it made _me_ a bit panicky, too.

Baz wasn’t panicking, even though he got the spell’s full force. (He was sitting next to Gareth, pouring tea.) I doubt he’ll have trouble finding someone to kiss—he’s got that whole _tragically handsome_ thing going on. People probably queue up for it.

I don’t know who _I’m_ supposed to kiss. Baz would be a twat about it: _tried snogging one of Ebb’s goats, Snow?_

Merlin, he loves himself. I bet he’s in our room right now, going to town on the mirror.

You’d think I could kiss Agatha, yeah? I mean, she dumped me last week, but still. We were together for ages, and we _did_ snog sometimes. Occasionally. Towards the beginning. And she was in the dining hall when the spell hit, so it would benefit her.

But it’s weird...the S.W.A.L.K. attack didn’t affect her. I asked why and she said she doesn’t particularly want to kiss any of us idiots, so maybe the spell didn’t stick. Then she pranced off and told me to do some soul-searching.

No help at all. Fucking Wednesdays.

I walk the Great Lawn, searching for candidates. I test the spell’s limits by running full tilt at one of the lads from the football team, but go ricocheting off, rolling through puddles from yesterday’s rain. I ask the next footballer I see if they fancy a snog. (They don’t.)

Some of the lads are on the pitch having a kickabout. They keep shooting weird looks at two of their teammates, fighting in the grass. I go to see what’s happening and realise they’re _not_ footballers and they’re definitely _not_ fightin _g—_ they look up, lips red and eyes glassy.

“What are _you_ looking at?”

It’s Baz’s mate, Niall. He’s with—

“Piss off, Snow! Shouldn’t you be attached to Wellbelove?”

Dev. Dev and Niall, snogging like their magic depends on it. (It does.)

_One kiss limit. That means they_ wanted _to kiss each other. They found their person._

I turn and run the length of the Lawn, surrounded on all sides by classmates, snogging for magic’s sake. (Do I...how—like _that?_ All those...hands?!)

The safest place for Simon Snow is upstairs, away from everything. I take the stairs in Mummers House two at a time, and when I reach the top, I’m a puddle of sweat and anxiety.

_At least I’m alone. I can stay up here for the rest of my life and snog my own hand. It’s not that bad. It’s not like—_

Oh, fuck.

Baz is sitting cross-legged on his bed, reading a book. I wait for the usual greeting— _pest, imbecile, crime against logic_ —but instead he just glares.

“Snow. Don’t you have somewhere to be.”

It’s not a question.

“It’s not safe out there.”

I sit on the edge of my bed and sigh.

“Not a word.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You’re _thinking_. I can hear you; it’s bedlam.”

_Wanker._

“The spell got you. Aren’t you trying to find out who your person is?”

He blinks at me. “My...person?”

“Yeah. The one you want to kiss.”

I nearly tell him about Dev and Niall—it didn’t look like _they_ were sticking to any one kiss limits. Baz’ll be innocently walking along and _oh, there’s your two best mates, joined at the lip!_

“I suppose you kissed your girlfriend and solved the world’s problems,” he sneers.

“Agatha’s not my girlfriend. Not anymore.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

He doesn’t sound upset. Has he already tried to kiss her? It’d be just like him to go after Agatha to piss me off.

“The spell didn’t affect her, so she didn’t need a kiss,” I tell him. “Guess she’s not the one.”

He looks at me strangely, then returns to his book.

“What’s your strategy?” I ask, because silence is boring. “Thought I’d wait it out up here. Penny says it could take days to wear off, but that’s alright. Maybe I’ll get called away on a mission.”

He rolls his eyes. “Merlin’s beard, you’re thick. What use are you without your magickal sword? No more disastrous than usual, I suspect.”

I growl, but he’s ignoring me again.

“Why are you such a prick? Your mates are out there having the time of their lives, mapping each other’s cavities—”

“I know and I don’t care.”

“—and you’re _sulking_ , instead of figuring this out.”

“I am _trying_ to distract myself,” he snaps. “Just...get out. Now.”

“Why do I have to leave?” I shout.

I’m sure he’s about to punch me, then he sighs and despairs in one fluid movement. “Fine. There’s no way I’d win a war of obstinate wit with _you._ ”

Baz Pitch wants to mope in his room because...no one kissed him? I mean, he’s a tosser, but it’s hard to believe no one _wanted_ to. Where’s that queue?

Wait...

Maybe Baz knows who _he_ wants to kiss, but they don’t want him back.

(There’s an unpleasant curl in my stomach as I try to guess who Baz would roll around in a field with.)

“Who is it? Dev?”

“Fuck off, Snow.”

“The other one, then.”

“ _No._ ”

“Agatha?”

He shakes his head. _No hesitation. Interesting._

He stands up and moves past me, so I grab his arm.

“Let go.”

“Stop, Baz!” I pull him back as he tries to pull away. “You’re the only other person who hasn’t snogged anyone.”

I yank on his arm, half-expecting the Anathema to kick in. (It doesn’t.) He’s off balance, and then we’re falling. We end up on my bed in a tangle—he looks down at me, hair in his face.

I lick my lips. (They’re dry. Tired myself out tackling that footballer.)

Baz is staring at my mouth. I’m staring at his. (It’s only fair.)

And instead of insulting me, he _kisses_ me.

It shouldn’t work—there’s no _way._ The spell must be broken. Maybe Gareth got into trouble and The Mage made him reverse it.

I’m _not_ meant to be kissing _Baz_.

_Am I?_

The spell doesn’t throw him off, and there’s no invisible wall. Instead I feel his mouth against mine, cold but warming as we go. His lips are soft and his breath keeps catching, each time we almost part.

I don’t know how long we’re supposed to do this for, but now we’re here, we might as well keep going. (Just to be sure.) Variety might help, so I kiss him a bit harder, and then we’re rolling over until he’s right _there,_ under me on my bed.

I try to remember what Dev and Niall were doing in the grass. I pass my hands through Baz’s hair, stroke his cheeks with my thumbs.

We break apart when we’re out of breath, and he lies with his eyes closed, chest rising and falling. _That should do it._ I reach across the space between our beds and find his wand.

“Here.” I press it into his hand. “Try?”

He blinks at me, and for a second I think he’s going to cry. But then he brings the wand between us and says, **_“Light of my life.”_**

A white-hot flame flickers in the palm of his hand before fading.

“It worked,” I say, pointing out the obvious. He slides his wand up his sleeve and says nothing.

_Baz wanted to kiss me._

_And...I wanted to kiss Baz. I really,_ really _wanted to kiss Baz._

_He was my person._

And the kiss...well, it wasn’t the _worst_ way to break a spell.

Before I can think too hard about things, I press my lips against his again, kissing away his surprise.

“Snow,” he murmurs, “it’s over.”

“Yeah, I know.”

He holds onto my shoulders, fingers drifting to the dip in my back. My own are in his hair again, thoroughly tangled.

“I believe we’ve met the spell’s requirements,” he says, finally warm beneath me.

I smile, pulling at the knot in his tie. “Probably. So...do you want to stop?”

“No,” he whispers, teeth against my top lip. “Do you?”

“We could test that one kiss limit.”

“What’s that, Snow?”

“Nothing. Just...”

_I’m going to have to rethink Wednesdays._

_And..._

“Baz?”

“Simon?”

A sigh.

_I don’t want to stop._


	10. I: 22 Candles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _cake, flowers, badly drawn candles_  
> 

**SIMON**

It’s Baz’s birthday and all I’ve got is kisses.

Sounds stupid, right? I should’ve got something better. Something expensive.

To be fair, I tried—I asked for ideas, but he said unhelpfully sappy shit like _Oh Simon, nothing; I’ve got what I want. I only want you. And cake._

Like I said, sappy _and_ unhelpful. (Can’t exactly bake myself into a cake, can I?) (Wait. Maybe...)

No, it’s too late for confectionery.

Today arrived before I’m ready, and kisses will have to do. I did get him a card and used my best handwriting, so he won’t come away completely empty-handed. He doesn’t want to miss lectures, so he’s still going to uni—I’m staying home from college to fret, and he’s carrying on as normal.

Alright for some, isn’t it?

It’s probably best to get started early, so the first one lands before he wakes. **Kiss 1** , an alarm clock on his cheek. He groans and calls me a gremlin.

“Snow?” he asks, grey eyes fluttering open. “What’s all this drool in aid of?”

“Right then, Pitch,” I announce. “Get up and prepare for the flood.”

“The flood?”

I sneak **kiss 2** in while he’s still groggy, right on the lips. He squirms, though I don’t _think_ it’s in protest. “Yeah, the flood of my saliva. Life jackets at the ready.”

I pour him a bowl of cornflakes. (For some reason he loves boring-as-fuck cereal, and it _is_ his birthday.) He shouts at me so I know when to stop pouring milk, and I sneak **kisses 3** and **4** into his hair on my way to the fridge.

“Is this you being willfully affectionate?” he asks, understandably suspicious. I watch the spoon slide in and out of his mouth.

“Happy birthday!” I screech, and he almost chokes on it. “Twenty-two, aren’t you? You get twenty-two kisses. You lucky, lucky boy.”

I let it sink in, his mouth pulling up in a smile. I was a mess last year, and both of our birthdays went unnoticed; it feels like there’s a lot to make up for.

I’d like to get started today.

“Do I get a say in this?” he asks, stirring his tea.

“No. You’re completely at my mercy.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Careful, Snow—follow the trail of kisses, and you might find fire.”

Well, I _am_ going to put candles on his cake later, so...he’s not wrong.

On his way out, I get him again— **kisses 5, 6, 7** , racing after him in the stairwell.

“You’ll wake the neighbours, Snow.”

I trace them along his jaw, a promise for later. “Don’t give a shit.”

He leaves flustered, hair properly messed up. (It’s lovely.)

_A solid start. But there’s work to be done._

__

I flit around the flat, feeling nervous. Baz has got lectures until four—that’s a lot of day to lose, but I found a way of getting a few remote kisses to him.

I check my phone. Quarter past nine. He should be in the library by now, settled at a computer.

_Seventeen minutes past. Eighteen. Nineteen._

At twenty past nine, my phone lights up—I answer immediately.

“Alright?” I ask, unable to keep the smile out of my voice. “ **Kisses 8** and **9** arrived?”

“Snow, why did I open my email to find flashing gifs and gaudy animations?” The words might be cold, but he sounds so _happy._

__

_“_ No fucking clue, love. Might be an e-card. Be in the atrium for nine-thirty, yeah?”

Silence. Then, “Why?”

“Because I sent you flowers. And I asked the florist to write **kisses 10** and **11** on the card.”

There should be a cheeky message, too. _X marks the spot._

It took me a while to understand that Baz was the treasure. Not magic, not fighting, not _winning_. Us and what we have together—that’s it. That’s what people spend lifetimes searching for.

And to think, I almost left it buried and forgotten.

Baz has lunch at one, and he always goes to the same coffee shop for a sandwich and overpriced latte. (I know this because he gives his drink a daily rating out of ten when he gets home. He blogs about it.) It’s raining, but I’ve had this part planned in my head for hours, and I’m not about to let the weather ruin it.

I see him crossing the road, flowers swinging at his side. He looks dead smart in his shirt and jeans—fresh out of one degree and into another. I used to resent him for that, for flying when I felt like falling. But I don’t anymore.

I want to lift him up.

(Found my feet at last.)

“Hungry?” I ask. He looks at me, and I swear his eyes are lighter.

“Another trap, Snow?”

“Yep.” I hold up a paper bag containing his lunch, dissolving in the rain. He leaves it on the pavement and pulls me in for **kisses 12, 13** and **14** , the sort that don’t know how to end. We step outside of mundane things like essays and deadlines.

He goes back to uni a bit breathless.

I go home via the supermarket, looking up ingredients on my phone.

I should be better at baking, considering how much I like food. There’s a method to it—a _science_ , Baz would say—but I run out of patience. I get everything slopped together in a bowl, and then can’t wait for it to rise. I want it done, right now and ready to go.

Maybe my baking is fine, and it’s the waiting I’m crap at?

Anyway, I know what Baz is like. He’ll be thrilled I used the oven without burning the flat down. He’ll know how hard it was, resisting the temptation to buy one of those Colin the Caterpillar cakes from Marks & Sparks.

I arrange his flowers in a vase and press candles into the sponge, twenty-two in total. I try not to think about him blowing them out and what he might wish for.

An alarm goes off on my phone: half past three.

I send him a text for **kisses 15** and **16** :

_Hey did you know I love you and your miserable face xxxxx_

_Hope youre in the mood for chocolate cake xxxxxxxxxxx_

He sends me a picture of himself with his top button undone, the sun behind him.

I’ll take that as a yes.

When he gets home, I’m ready. (Must be creepy from his point of view. I’m behind the door, ready to intercept.)

I get **kiss 17** on his lips before he can protest. He sinks into it and lets me take off his coat, notebooks abandoned in the doorway.

We stand in the kitchen and he inspects the cake, fingers grazing unlit wicks. It’s sad, seeing it like this. I should have made dinner as well, or ordered something, because he’s been studying on his _birthday_ while I’ve been arsing around in the flat, and—

He bends the rules by placing **kiss 18** on the end of my nose.

“Stop,” he whispers. **Kiss 19** comes a bit sooner than planned, but I’m not complaining. “It’s perfect.”

He lights the candles with a match, and we blow them out together.

I’ve got one more surprise. Baz didn’t want to go out, and he didn’t want me to spend money, but I _did_ find that fancy soap shop he likes in town.

When we’ve demolished the cake and laughed through ten episodes of nothing on telly, I take him by the hand and lead him into the bathroom. He stands in silence while I run the taps and undress him—carefully, deliberately. (My own unveiling’s far less graceful; he doesn’t laugh when I get my shirt stuck over my head.)

I throw in the bath bomb, and the room explodes with scent and colour.

I leave **kiss 20** somewhere on his collarbone as I step into the water. (It’s way too fucking hot, but I’ll get over it.)

When we’re both relaxed and soapy, I let **kiss 21** mix with the steam on his lips.

There’s only a minute left in the day when he asks about the missing kiss.

“By my count, Snow, we’re one short.”

“I know.”

I lean over, light from the moon outside casting shadows across his face.

“I had a wonderful day,” he whispers. “Even if you did make me listen to that blasted Taylor Swift song forty-thousand times.”

“Twenty-two, Baz. I played it twenty-two times.”

He moves to meet me, but I put my hand on his mouth.

“I wasn’t going to kiss you there,” I say, a lot more confidently than I feel.

It takes him a moment to understand.

“Simon, you don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

We’re only breath, caught up in each other.

He wraps a hand around my neck and pulls me to him, stealing the day’s last kiss.

I’m pissed off that he’s ruining my plans, but also pretty fucking pleased. The kiss is sweet, deep, perfect—miles better than anything I’d manage, courage be damned.

When it ends we stay together, forehead to forehead, nose to nose.

“Well, that’s it. **Kiss 22**. Consider yourself flooded.”

His hands move up over my arms and down my back.

“Aren’t we beyond midnight by now? It’s not my birthday anymore.”

He brings my hand to his mouth. One, two, three, four contraband kisses, smuggled across fingertips.

“We can start again,” I say, catching on.

“Yes,” he murmurs, and I don’t know what number we’re on now, and I’m not sure it’ll matter for much longer. “Start again.”

I wonder what Baz wished for when he blew out his candles.

I know what _I’m_ wishing for. I follow the pattern of kisses he’s leaving along my neck and chest. He’s thorough, catching every mole and freckle on his way down.

Countless kisses hidden in his hair, along his eyelashes.

A hundred or more on his mouth, illicit in his hands as we move together.

I’m not the best at birthdays. I never know what to buy, to do, to say.

But this...

_I wish, I wish, I wished for this._

Baz was right when he threatened me so sweetly, this morning.

Follow the trail of kisses, and you might find fire.

We let it burn through the night.


	11. I: Red Card

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _mud, football, bad tackles_  
> 

**BAZ**

Simon Snow is an animal on the pitch.

It should come as no surprise, really. He's beastly in almost all aspects of life, approaching situations as though they're abandoned buildings, condemned to be bulldozed by his obstinacy. I'm surprised he doesn't eat breakfast with his elbows.

He slides towards me, grass beneath us slick with evening rain, the soles of his trainers connecting with my shin and sending me flying. The tackle is neither graceful nor gracious, designed to hurt: textbook Simon Snow. _Instant red card—Ref, send him off!_

"Tell me where you were," he spits at nothing, hands twisting into my muddied shirt. (If he tears it I'm going to spell him into oblivion.) (As oblivious as he already is, it may have no discernible effect.) "You've been avoiding me all week. Stop being a twat, Baz."

I know he’s apt to go off when his already foul mouth takes a turn for the vulgar. He's right, of course—I _have_ been avoiding him. Am I supposed to confess the truth of my rousing escapade with the numpties? _Fear not, Snow, my extended absence was nothing to do with you—I was locked in a coffin, slowly going mad with starvation and the agony of missing you. Hardly worth mentioning, you’ll agree._

I shove him off and stand, my kit caked in mud. (He’s a mess, too. I regard his shorts with great regret, clinging to grass-flecked thighs.) ( _My life is a hideous joke_.)

"I wouldn't say my out-of-school activities are any of your concern, Snow. Neither are my _in-school_ activities."

He growls, wiping filthy hands on my sleeves, backing me towards the goalposts. _Careful, now—you might score._ He steps on my foot, and if he were wearing studs, I'd be hobbled. (I _am_ hobbled, after my time spent _chez numpty_. Both physically and emotionally.)

"Fuck off! You haven't been up to our room tonight. What was I supposed to think?"

_Nothing. You’re supposed to think_ nothing; _you’re an expert at it. Pretend I never came back and carry on with your marvellous life, Miracle Boy._

That's what set him off tonight, then. My absence from Mummers House. It's true that I couldn't face another evening in close proximity to the Chosen One, as he worked himself into a state over our shared stony silence.

Coach Mac won't let me back onto the team, but I had all of these bothersome _feelings_ to burn after a week of Snow trailing me around like a kicked puppy. I came down to the pitch after dark for a kickabout, certain he’d choose surrender over voluntary exercise. When I noticed he was there—scowling on the sidelines, mouthing curses at me as I tried to score from the eighteen yard line—I let go of any hopes for a pleasant evening passed in solitude.

Simon Snow is a walking foul, an overlooked handball, an unsolicited headbutt. He is life's unfair red card and subsequent penalty kick.

He tackles me again, once more connecting with my bad leg, and I go down. My mouth fills with mud and regret.

_This. This is how he ends me, one bruise at a time._

He pinches my arms and rolls me onto my back, and then I'm looking into his eyes as he holds himself over me, knees digging into my hips. It would be an alluring predicament, were he not glaring down with such murderous intent. (Even _that's_ worryingly appealing, I admit.)

I sit up abruptly—I suppose a headbutt is the immediate goal, followed by a sound beating delivered via my accumulated years of superiority—just at the moment that he moves _his_ face _down_.

We meet halfway, his nose smashing against mine, and it takes a moment to realise that those are _his_ teeth biting into my lip, _his_ tongue invading what remains of my personal space.

_Simon Snow. Are you—is this...?_

He's _kissing_ me. Snow executed an astoundingly poor sliding tackle, illegal by any measure of civil sporting conduct, and now he's snogging me into the grass.

_And I'm letting him do it._

_I’m kissing him back._

It goes on for far longer than it should. At some point I find the gall to push him off, and then _he's_ on _his_ back and I'm leaning over, my lips on his. I can taste mud on his mouth and—disappointingly—my own blood, seeping from the cut on my lip.

It's slow before it's fast.

It's cold before it's hot.

It's over before I'm ready to admit that I want it.

Then he's shoving me, shuffling up onto his knees. We stay like that as the rain begins again, churning the turf beneath us. Water gathers along painted white lines as he leans in, lips parted. "Baz..." he whispers, and I don't reply. He doesn't say anything else.

I stand, brushing dirt off my sleeves, hauling him to his feet with an outstretched hand.

"An appalling foul, Snow. Red card. Get off the pitch."

I nod in the direction of Mummers and he peers around, as though suddenly aware that someone might have seen us. (I don't think anyone did. It's dark enough to make us shadows, and little else.)

"Alright," he grunts, wiping his nose. There’s dirt smeared across his cheek. (It's a distressingly lovely sight.) (I want to lick the mud off his face and kiss him until his mouth's as bloody as mine.) "Yeah, alright. I'll go. Come back though, yeah?"

He shuffles off, head down, arms wrapped around himself to stave off the chill.

And I'm left alone to wonder if I've just scored an own goal, by letting him go.

He looks back when he reaches the corner flag, and in the creeping dim I see the edges of his mouth lift in what might be a smile. One borne of bewilderment, granted—but still. It’s certainly preferable to a scowl.

It’s all I’m going to think about for the rest of the night, that much is evident. I scuff at the ball and stare at my feet, the world a haze of misting drizzle and the memory of his skin, hot to the touch.

I trail after Snow in the direction of rest, his retreating back a blur ahead of me. As I go—legs weary, feet dragging—I wonder what I’m supposed to make of it, kissing my enemy in the dark.

And I wonder...

...was this, perhaps, only the kick-off?

If I asked nicely, would he be up for a rematch?


	12. II: Window Seat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _planes, aisle seats, in-flight magazines_  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Miscellaneous meetings:** These stories started life as prompts on [this list](https://ninemagicks.tumblr.com/post/634532744411725824/tokiosunset-people-should-do-more-meet-ugly-and) by @tokiosunset. Thank you to everyone who sent in prompts: dreamingkc, bazzybelle, amphipodgirl, aralias, caitybug, giishu, otherworldsivelivedin, inflammable-grimm-pitch, and anon. <3 I hope you like them.

**SIMON**

The man next to me on this flight is a bloody nightmare. I’m telling you, Stephen King himself couldn’t have dreamt this one up.

He looks like Dracula, for one thing. Dracula, if he came back to life and went for a jog through the Uninvited Wedding Guest section of Debenhams. While whistling the Addams Family tune. I mean, I could go on, but I think I’ve made my point.

Not only does he look like a sad one-man Evanescence tribute act, he’s also acting like a bit of a nutter. His leg’s shaking like jelly in the wind, and he keeps trying to pull the blind down over the window, even though the flight attendant’s threatened to bite his fingers off twice.

He put his headphones on, and I thought _oh finally, he’s calming down_. But then he pulled them off and made a funny noise, like a dog that’s been locked out in the rain. He started looking through the plane’s ragged in-flight magazine, then stuffed it back into his seat pocket, declaring it a waste of ink. He opened a book, he took a bite of a snack bar, he elbowed me in the ribs hard enough to bruise. The bloke just can’t sit still.

Nightmare. Honestly, I take my first trip out of the country in years and I get sat next to _this?_ What are the flipping odds of that?

Five hours. Five hours long, this flight. And I’m supposed to sit next to him and _not_ commit a mile-high murder? You’re having a laugh, mate. I’d rather take my chances strapped to the wing.

“Sir!” says the flight attendant as she passes our row again. (Thirteen – another classic horror novel sign. Should’ve known that was an ill omen.) “Please leave the blind _alone._ ”

I see him look up at her – black hair falling over grey eyes, lips chewed to ribbons – then he looks at me.

“Don’t involve me in your tragedy,” I snap. “You’re on your own.”

 _“Please,”_ he hisses, an inch away from utter desperation. “You must reason with her on my behalf! With the airline. With the entire feat of aviation. There’s absolutely no way I can be watching whilst the worlds slips away from me.”

I frown, leaning in a bit closer than I need to, to check if he’s been on the ol’ duty-free before boarding. I can’t smell any booze, so I reckon it’s worry that’s got him worked up like this. Half a litre of worry, washed down with panic.

_He’s not a villain. He’s just afraid._

“Are you scared of flying?” I ask gently, as he makes another illegal blind manoeuvre. I reach over and pull his hand down, pinning it against the armrest between us. I’d say he looks offended, but to be honest, that might just be his face. “Don’t worry – I’ve done this before. The takeoff’s the best part.”

“And that’s supposed to comfort me, is it?” He scowls, trying to wriggle his hand free. I let him go, ready to pounce.

But he doesn’t go for the blind again.

The flight attendants come through to check on the ongoing seat belt and tray table situation, and all the while I’m talking soothing nonsense to my jittery vampire neighbour, trying to take his mind off things. I couldn’t say for sure what we talk about – trains, trees, books, old cars.

“D'you want to swap seats?” I offer at one point. It might be better if he’s by the aisle, and I wouldn’t mind; he can ignore the whole _catapulted-into-the-air against my will_ situation a bit easier, if he’s not watching it happen.

The nearest attendant gets right in my face and snarls, _“Stay in your seats for takeoff, or else!”_

“Alright,” I squeak, surrendering, holding up my free hand. (The bloke’s still holding onto my other one. It’s verging on painful, but I don’t want to tip him over the edge.) “We’ll stay where we are.”

Dracula closes his eyes, resting his head against the seat in defeat.

I need to think of a way to distract him. He’s not that bad, really, now that I know he’s not being an arse on purpose. (Well, he _is_. But it’s not his fault he’s scared.) What do friendly people say? How are conversations started these days?

Instead of a _what are you heading to America for?_ or a _what do you do for a living?,_ I open my mouth and ask, “The fuck did you book the window seat for?”

He shoots me a look of absolute hatred, which softens back to fear. (And a bit of queasiness, maybe. Is that…) (Yep. He’s definitely going to throw up.) I lean forwards to snatch a paper bag from his seat pocket; he breathes into it, still desperately clutching my hand.

When his face is a normal colour again, he says, “I didn’t book it. My aunt did.”

“Oh,” I say. “Your aunt. She lives overseas?”

“Yes. Last year, she moved. Visiting.”

We might not yet be out of sick-in-a-bag territory. I let go of his hand long enough to rub his back in what I hope is a comforting way. (His suit feels velvety.)

“What. You? About.”

I think the weird croaking sounds are him asking where _I’m_ going, so I tell him about Penny. “She went travelling after uni. I said I’d meet her in the middle somewhere, so. Here I go.”

Dracula nods along, but I don’t think he’s listening. We move back from the stand and start rolling across tarmac; he goes off on this epic rant about avionic safety systems and how the machine we’re occupying isn’t fit to fly.

I can’t hear a word the flight attendants are saying. They’re trying to lead us through the stuff about masks and emergency exits. My hand gets crushed under his again, because apparently if _he_ needs to suffer for all the hours we’re in the air, then I do too.

And then we’re on the runway, angling for the sky.

“You’re alright,” I murmur. If I’m about to be worried to death in the sky by a hysterical goth, it’d probably be nice to know his name, so I say, “I’m Simon. Who are you?”

_If you say Vlad I’m going to lose it._

He calms down long enough to mumble at me, “None of your business. The nerve! The gall! But…Baz. My name is Baz.”

I hold his hand, stroking across the back of his thumb.

Squeeze once to show I’m here, then again to say I’m going nowhere.

I tell him to close his eyes and he does, muttering under his breath. I watch his lips move as the wheels of the plane leave the ground.

Then we’re up, weightless and leaning to the left as we spiral higher, chatter breaking out around us as we begin to level out.

I look to my left, rub his sleeve between my fingers.

“There we go,” I say lightly, shifting my legs so I’m facing him. “Nothing to it.”

He looks at me, relieved and half-smiling, just as the plane shudders through a bump.

“No. I can’t. That’s it. We’re doomed!”

Bleeding _hell_ , the grip he’s got on my hand! I can’t get free. He won’t let go. There’s no point trying.

When we reach altitude, the pilot makes an announcement that we can move around the cabin if we need to, though Baz doesn’t budge. He pulls down the blind in a sulk, and becomes intensely interested in the movements of the flight attendants as they move along the aisle with the refreshment trolley.

“Do you want anything?” I ask, freeing my hand and checking my bones remain intact. _A tranquiliser, maybe? If you think I’m letting you anywhere near a cup of coffee, you can think again._

“Tea,” he says quietly, avoiding my gaze. I feel sorry for him, so when it’s our turn, I ask for two teas and extra biscuits, and give them all to him.

He’s quiet, after that. I’m closing my eyes and settling in, thinking we’re just about through the worst of it, when he makes a mad dive for my hand again.

I brace myself for an agony that doesn’t come.

“Simon,” he says, soft and sincere. “I’m sorry, and…thanks.”

I call him a prat and tell him to read his book, which he does, after another ten minutes of complaint.

But he doesn’t let go of my hand.

I don’t let go, either. Not even when we land.


	13. II: Paint me green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _cars, keys, instant regret_  
> 

**SIMON**

That bloke’s outside again. I can see him from the window — he just pulled up in his stupid fancy sports car. Is it a sports car? He doesn’t look like he’s ever played a sport in his life.

Never mind. This is no time to get distracted — it’s _here. The green Jaguar._

Not an actual jaguar, mind. It’s not got whiskers or spots or a tail.

But it _does_ purr, I’ll give it that. And if you ask me, at the rate its driver’s going, it’s definitely on the fucking endangered list.

I wait, fingers twitching at curtains, for the driver to emerge. There he is, unfolding himself from the seat like a morbid _So Sorry For Your Loss_ pop-up card, all sleek lines and silky hair and sulky mouth. He _is_ a bit sexy, but in a _Draco Malfoy tripped and fell into a Cradle of Filth music video_ sort of way. So I’m not sure it really counts.

He sneers at the sun and I want to smack him right there, where his teeth curl over his lip. I want to pinch him until it bleeds, and he’s all pouty and pissed off, calling me every name he’s earnt for himself. That’s what he deserves.

I also think I’d quite like to shove him up against his stupid Jag and snog the look of disgust right off his face. But we’re not going to think too hard about _that._

All I know is that he can’t keep parking his car here. That’s my space! It’s got my flat number, right there on the sign! (I even wrote _my name_ on the sign, after he first started parking here. I drew a little smiley face to be polite.) (The fucker probably hasn’t even noticed.)

Alright, fine, so I don’t currently own a car. But does that mean I lose the space? _No._ I pay for it! Sort of. And it’s definitely my door number on the sign, but he just _ignores_ it.

It’s been a full fortnight of this now, this prat pulling up in my space. I even chained my bicycle out there, its front tyre propped up against the sign. The space was definitely, unarguably, one hundred percent occupied. In what world is a bike not a vehicle? And he still came gliding in later that day, as if my completely valid mode of transport weren’t right _there!_

I’m sick of him. It’s rude, it’s greedy, it’s _not fair._

So today I’ve got a little bit of revenge in mind. Nothing major — just enough to show him he’s not wanted around here.

I wait for him to complete his required number of shiny hair flips, and once he’s disappeared inside one of the other flats along the way, I slip out with nothing but my house key, my burning anger, and my raincoat. (It’s sunny today but the coat’s green, so it’s technically camouflage.)

I check left, right, then left again, making sure he’s not got one of his beady grey eyes crushed up against a window.

Then I kneel down next to his car and start scratching lines into the paint with my key.

I don’t need to overthink it; your basic grave insult will do. And it’s not like with his sort of money, he can’t take the car to a garage on his way back to Moneybags Manor, or wherever he bloody well lives, and get it fixed. It won’t even be worth batting those long, curling eyelashes at me. Won’t be worth the slightest quirk of those judgmental eyebrows.

I’m nearly done, just putting the finishing touches to the letter _C_ , when I feel a chill steal over me, followed by a shadow.

_Oh fuck._

I look up slowly, as if delaying the inevitable might help my cause. My house key’s still pressed against the car, and I should probably try to hide it, if I want to get out of this alive. But it’s hard to move or think or breathe.

He’s standing right there, behind me — silent as a fucking Prius. He’s got this flowery shirt on that’s flapping in the wind — every time it lifts I see a flash of fancy belt buckle. Silver and gold.

“May I ask what you are doing to my father’s car?”

I shove the key into my pocket, still trapped on my knees. It doesn’t seem wise to move. He’s wearing a pretty nice pair of leather shoes, and surely he won’t want to risk scuffing them by kicking me in the face?

“Your father’s car?” I hear myself ask. “It’s not yours?”

He puts his hands on his hips, hair blowing over his eyes. I can’t tell exactly how pissed off he is from down here, but that’s a power pose, if I ever saw one.

“No, it’s _not_ mine. My father’s the landlord here — he’s been renovating one of the vacated flats for a new tenant. He lets me borrow his car when he’s busy with the work van.”

I let it all wash over me, one horrifying fact at a time.

_His dad’s car. His dad’s my landlord. His dad drives a van. And you know the sorts of things that happen in vans around here!_

“Oh, god — fuck, I’m sorry,” I splutter, knees cracking as I struggle to my feet. “Sorry, yeah? I thought it was yours.”

He pushes his hair out of his face, and _there’s_ the frown I’m used to spying from my window. It’s even more evil up close.

“You thought the car was mine, and so you —”

“Look, you’ve been parking in my space for weeks, right, and —”

“— took a _key_ and _keyed my father’s car_ because —”

“— if you could’ve just respected the sign and parked somewhere else, I wouldn’t have —”

“— in all the days I’ve been coming here, there has _never_ been a car in this space, and —”

“— not really the point, and anyway, I can’t really help cover damages, so y’know, if we could —”

“— never known such insolence in all my life!”

He ends with a shout and a waggle of violent eyebrows, and then before I know what’s happening he’s got me bent over the boot, cruel lips pushed against my ear.

“Your handwriting is _terrible._ What is it even supposed to say?”

“Fuck you!” I shout struggling free. I adjust my raincoat; he’s creasing it horribly. “It says _fuck you._ For parking in my space.”

We both peer around to inspect my hard work. He’s not wrong about my key-cursive — it looks more like F O D K T D U. Which makes absolutely no sense. But you try writing on a car door in a hurry, it’s not easy!

A man’s voice calls from somewhere in the block of flats — his father, probably, shouting down to us from an unseen window.

“Basil, is everything alright? Do you have the insurance forms I asked for?”

Basil. Huh. That must be his name.

“Yes, of course — I’ll be right there.”

He glares at me and reaches past to unlock the car, starting the engine with the push of a button. I think he’s going to get in and drive off without saying anything, but then he’s pressed up against me again, his face a mess of threat and fury.

“You’ll be hearing from me. You’ll have invoices coming out of your arse for a month.”

I swallow. “Invoices coming out of my —? Look, mate. I’m skint.” I hesitate, taking a brief mental inventory of my flat. “You can have my bike, though. And I’ve got some balsa wood models I could sell.”

His lip curls, and then although I’d rather he didn’t, he’s gripping my raincoat with both fists, pulling my face against his.

“Your parking space,” he says malevolently. “It’s _mine_ now, do you understand?”

I gape, flounder, drown on dry land — _it wasn’t supposed to be this way. You were meant to be vaguely offended and drive off into the sunset with your pretty clothes and wonky nose, never to return._

“It’s my space,” I mutter. “Can’t have it.”

He slides into the driver’s seat, a look of liquid disdain inked across his features. He’s even scarier now than when he arrived — like a leopard, curled to strike.

“I’m taking this to a garage before my father sees it, and has you strung up by your intestines.” He slams the door and lowers the window, so he can continue the torment. “I’ll be back this afternoon, and I expect your space to be willing and waiting for me, Snow. Absolutely no dilapidated bicycles, do you hear?”

My stomach drops. _He knows my name._ Of course he does — his dad owns the building. He’s probably been reading up on all of us on Tenant Wikipedia, or whatever landlords use to keep track. (Or maybe he _did_ read the sign on my parking space.) (Whichever one’s more likely.)

“Fine,” I mutter. “Whatever. Sod off.”

He smirks, waiting for me to shuffle out of the way so he can reverse from the space. As he glides past me — this car really _does_ purr, bloody hell - he says quietly, just for me to hear, “Miss you already, Snow. Can’t wait to do business with you.”

And then he’s gone in a spin of gravel and misery.

I stand in my empty parking space, raincoat blowing around my knees, wondering what I’ve got myself into.

I turn to look at the sign, faded and rusted. _FLAT 41 PARKING ONLY. THIS SPACE IS PROPERTY OF ** SIMON SNOW ** PLZ FUCKOFF. NO SPORTS CARS ALLOWED!!!!!_

I crouch down and scratch a frown over what was once a crooked smile.

I stand in the space he left. I wait for the car to come back.

When I go to unlock my front door, I look down at my key. It’s smeared with flakes of green paint.

For all that I try, the paint won’t come off.

Bits of green under my fingernails.

Grey eyes, parked in my thoughts.


	14. II: Baz Pitch's walk of shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Greggs, hedges, mobile phones_  
> 

**BAZ**

It’s the morning after the night before and, without question, the worst day of my life.

I’m not even sure I _am_ alive. Does a headache of this magnitude not negate all chances of survival? It’s like there’s an earthquake rocking between my ears, my own personal seismic upheaval.

I’d say it was the vodka. I’d blame it on the shots.

But it was _me,_ ultimately. Basilton Pitch, lush about town. _Forgive me father, for I have committed the egregious sin of mixing drinks and dancing with strangers until I was so dizzy I fell over and landed in another stranger’s lap._

I was my own ruin and undoing last night, there’s no question. It’s something of a sport for me, seeing how messy the night can get without becoming outright destructive. Somewhere around the fifth drink and the third pair of lips, I escaped the flimsy restraints of self-respect and determined instead to drive myself as close to devastation as I could.

It was a good night. A _great_ night — I can be sure of that, because I cannot confidently recall a single moment of it.

It went all the way, that much is apparent. I am quite the eyesore this morning. A Hollywood action film after the explosive display of pyrotechnics goes off during the climactic scene, leaving the budget in tatters and a set in ashes.

I am every _Fast & Furious _sequel rolled into one.

I stumble along, hair sticky and plastered to my face, a smudge of someone else’s eyeliner streaked along one cheek. I try to recall who it was I woke up with this morning — I know there were jeans, legs, a shirt. The club I found him at was busy, heaving with light and sound and bodies — _The Magic_ , it was called.

It certainly _does_ feel like I’ve been tricked.

I went home with someone I can’t remember, woke up on another person’s couch I didn’t recognise, and appear to have broken my mobile phone. (The damned thing won’t unlock.) (Perhaps it needs to be charged. Or beaten with a house brick.) And so, to add to my agony, I cannot even call for a taxi to save myself this final, poignant shame.

The long walk home. The unending ordeal of a well-deserved hangover.

I stagger on, dressed in florals and covered in glitter, like a particularly whimsical extra from _The Walking Dead._

Cars pass me as I sway along the pavement. I appear to have rumpled and bedraggled every part of me, though at least my wallet is still in my pocket. My phone’s useless, but I’ll be able to satisfy the simplest of my immediate needs — namely, the procuring of something greasy, salty and sinful to mash into my face. (One would think I did enough of that last night, but alas. Apparently not.)

There isn’t much open along this desolate stretch of featureless high street. It must be too early, too _Sunday_ for the daylight people. I squint through shuttered windows, blinking owlishly at my tousled reflection, trapped in glass like a slovenly ghost.

_Something, somewhere must be open. Hot, salty, and very, very, bad for my pores — that’s what I need._

That latest thought brings back further memories of the night before. Of skin and the sort of things you instantly regret in daylight — I groan as I tumble onwards, a tribute to crumbling dignity.

I wish I my phone would unlock. That’s a confusing disappointment. And where is my belt? Did I leave it on that unknown person’s couch? Did I — well, it matters not. I’m not going back there. (I don’t even know where _there_ is; I woke up and immediately dragged myself outside without looking back.)

Up ahead, I see something that looks a lot like salvation — open doors and fluorescent overhead bulbs. I look up to see the most beautiful word in the English language — G R E G G S — shining down upon me, like a light from the heavens.

Like a lost soul come home from the desert, I step into the light.

“Alright, love. Rough night, was it?” comes the call from the woman behind the counter. (Yes, Debbie, I imagine it was.) (The bruises on my wrists certainly suggest as much.) She’s far too cheery for my liking; I suspect Debbie had a good night’s sleep in an actual bed, and as such, I’m in no mood for her vivacity. “What can I get for you?”

I ask for coffee and a sausage roll. It’s the one thing that might fill the hole in me, mopping up any residual alcohol and transforming me back into something resembling a person. _Greasy meat-adjacent filling encased in pastry. Nothing else will do._ As I hand over the money, I can almost taste it — the mere prospect of food has life seeping in at the edges. _I am revived._

“Sorry love,” comes the disappointing conclusion. (I had a few of _those_ last night, too. But then we got into the swing of things and it ended rather nicely.) “Looks like I just sold the last one to that young man. Can I get you something else? A steak bake?”

I stare at her in abject horror, then follow her trailing finger to the doorway, where I see another figure limping out into the day. There’s a paper bag clutched in his fist.

I recognise that appalling posture. Bronze curls sit in a bird’s nest atop his head, shirt collar sticking up and shoelaces trailing. He’s one of my own, a fellow libertine completing his own walk of shame. (Well, his is more of a shuffle. But the tableau applies.)

“Excuse me,” I croak, taking my coffee and abandoning all hope. _I’ll die without it. Nothing else can save me._ “Hate to bother you, but could I possibly buy that sausage roll from you? Five pounds. I’ll give you five pounds for it. _Please._ ”

The man in the doorway turns to stare in confusion, and as his blue eyes stroke upon mine, I suffer a distasteful flashback of the night before — limbs, dark, teeth, the rumble of bass and strobe light.

_Were you at the club?_

_Were you —?_

I shake it off. This is no time for idle speculation; I’ve baked goods to attain.

“You what?” he grunts, the grey beneath his eyes forming canyons. He’s definitely one of my own — there’s a slim chance he’s suffering an even worse hangover, which I’ll take advantage of. “Sod off.”

I match his pace as we leave the shop, turning right to rejoin the main road. He’s walking my way, which is convenient. It also lessens the trauma of being _seen_ by passing traffic, faces peering to sneer in amusement as we blink blearily into the sun.

They might not know who we are or where we were last night, but they know what we were doing. I grimace. (Never again.) (Or at least, not until next weekend.)

I lean into my new companion, who splashes tea down his scruffy shirt. There’s glitter on his shoulder; he smells like cigarette smoke and the immediate aftermath of a debauched night on the tiles. (He looks like he should be the frontman in a mildly successful indie band.) (It’s not a good look, per se, but I’m looking.)

“What’s your name?” I ask, eyeing the bag in his hands. “Five pounds will buy you a lot of pasties, you know. Steak bakes. Bean melts. You’d enjoy that.”

I’ve reached the limits of my Greggs menu knowledge. He glares at me and bites the end off his sausage roll.

My knees nearly give away.

“You’re not stealing my fucking breakfast. Get your own.” He hesitates, slops more tea down his front. “And…Simon. Who the fuck are you, the sausage roll police?”

I get my fingers caught in my hair, and expend thirty seconds trying to retrieve them. (This is not my finest moment.)

“Baz. Or Basil, it matters not; I woke this morning with one shoe in a puddle of sick, and the other one down my trousers, so. That’s all you need know about me.”

I lean closer. He doesn’t pull away, but he might be physically incapable of reacting. The man is in rough shape.

“There was sick on my shoe as well,” he mutters.

“Yes,” I say, cementing our connection. “See? I’m one of _you.”_

He squints up at me, demolishing half the sausage roll in one obscene mouthful, before falling into a hedge. We opt wisely for a five-minute breather on a park bench. Somebody sounds their horn at us, though I daren’t look up to meet their eye — a disembodied voice tossed from a window shouts, “WAHEY LADS, GET IN!”

“Hungover,” I observe, hand on his shoulder. “I am very, very hungover.”

He tries to laugh and ends up gargling, which is oddly endearing. “Yeah? What did you get into last night, then?”

I understand he might be asking for my rakish credentials, though I don’t suppose he actually wants to know what I _physically_ got into. (I’m not sure I want to know, either.)

“Music. I was at _The Magic,”_ I say, keeping things as monosyllabic as possible. (For my own benefit.) “Alcohol. Death, you know. Biting. Possibly an arse or two. Can’t be sure.”

He nods sagely. “All arses look the same after a bit.”

“Indeed.” I falter, stomach rumbling. “I managed to break my phone, so I can’t call for a taxi. My apologies, Simon — I’m afraid the scene you witnessed in Greggs was the last act of a desperate man. I’m usually much more respectable.”

His expression softens into one of pained understanding. I help him up and he leans into me as we wobble our way down the road again. As we round the next corner, he passes me the paper bag he’s been clutching to his chest like a keepsake.

“Are you sure?” I gasp. “You don’t know what this means. Thank you.”

I try to ply him with money, but he shrugs it off. “No, Baz. You’re alright. You need this more than I do. I want you to enjoy it.”

I do, I do need it. And I do enjoy it.

Time stops and the universe heals itself, in those few seconds I spend with the scraps of his illicit meat in my mouth. Then it’s gone, the bliss I was chasing only ever temporary. The suffering soon returns, and though I try to quench the thirst within me with the bitter taste of cold coffee, I soon realise there’s no satisfying conclusion to this. No succour or salvation.

“Water,” Simon croaks as we near the end. (Of the road. But also, the end of our lives.) “Should’ve bought a bottle of water. Not coffee. Fucking stupid.”

We stand on the corner in a daze. I consider how this could have been over an hour ago, if my phone was working.

But then I wouldn’t have met Simon. Simon needs me.

We were drawn together, destined to meet this way.

“Where does this nightmare end?” I ask him, hand raised against a torturous sun. “What did we do to deserve this?”

“Here,” he says, reaching into a trouser pocket. I notice there’s a stamp on his hand, ink already fading — _The Magic._ He must have been at the club too. I should let him know, help him piece together the mystery of last night. “Baz, where do you live? I’ll call a taxi. We’ll use that fiver to pay for it.”

It’s not a bad idea. In reality, I’m barely three streets from home, though a further ten minutes of staggering _does_ seem impossible — Simon says he lives in the same direction. I watch him pull out his phone, tap at the screen hopelessly, and growl before giving up.

“Fucking thing,” he mutters. “Won’t unlock.”

I take it from him — he has the same model as I do. (Even the same case — one of those generic, rubbery things that protect very little). The screen’s dusty, as if it’s been left on a shelf for an age, or dropped down the back of a couch — I wipe at it with a crinkled sleeve. Then, out of habit more than anything, I mistakenly enter my own passcode.

It shouldn’t work. As alike as we are in our misery, it’d be bizarre for us to have the same passcode.

But it’s not a mistake.

The phone unlocks in my hand, screen brightening to a familiar background of palm trees and sand, that I took whilst on holiday last year.

Simon stares at me as if I’ve just parted the Thames. “You…” he splutters. “What?”

I realise, with a sense of dread and the tang of salt in my throat — that would be the sausage roll, rising up to reintroduce itself — to whom the phone in my own pocket must belong.

I pull it out into daylight, pressing it into Snow’s hand. He stares at it if he’s never seen it before, then slides his thumb over the screen.

It unlocks.

“Baz, what the…”

It takes him a mite longer to catch on.

“Oh.” And then, louder, which won’t help my headache or his own. _“Oh._ You… _your_ arse? _”_

 _Yes,_ I think. Another flash of memory — a mole in an unspeakable place, freckles between shoulder blades. _Yes, Simon. My arse._

We stand together, a last bastion of debauchery against the steady tide of commuters, going about their working days. Another car horn sounds, another ribald comment made, though Snow and I only have eyes for each other. I expect him to make another vague comment about arses, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he slips his phone into his pocket and says, “Five pounds will buy a lot of pasties, Baz. Steak bakes. And water — we should probably drink some water.”

I nod, touch his arm, turn us back the way we came.

“Do you remember what happened last night?” I ask delicately, as the dam breaks and scattered memories flood back, piece by piece. _It’s the sausage roll. It revived me._ “We can start at the beginning. Stitch it together.”

He brushes fluff off my sleeve and yawns, every inch of his face furrowing.

“Yeah, go on then,” he says. I knock the glitter off his shoulder. “Start at the beginning.”


	15. II: The Getaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Soup, traffic, self-celebratory parades_  
> 

**BAZ**

Today is one of those days you suspect you’ll reach the end of and think, _this could, theoretically, have gone better._

I slept through my alarm, for one thing. My work phone was already busy with text messages from my miser of a boss — _GET IN THE OFFICE. NOW. BIG DAY. IF YOU’RE LATE AGAIN, I CAN FIND A NEW ASSISTANT._

I did not grace him with a response.

Then, when I finally found myself dressed and willing to depart, the car windscreen needed defrosting. Also, my coffee was burnt. And every single traffic light on my way to work has turned red upon my approach, as if warning me away. _No, Baz, don’t go to the office — that way migraines lie._

I won’t deny it, it’s hard not to take everything personally. (So I do.)

And yet, the day goes on. I’m on my way somehow, and my boss has only called me twice and sent _one_ additional capslock-happy text message, advising me to _SWITCH ON NEWS WHEN YOU GET TO OFFICE. MAKE SURE EVERYTHING IS RECORDED._ _OR ELSE._

I call Wellbelove on speaker phone at the fourth red light, asking her to prepare the recording on my behalf. _It’s not as if I can magically part the tides of traffic ahead of me, is it?_

Still. It’s not _all_ bad. There’s a song on the radio that isn’t completely horrible, and I’ve managed to navigate a route that will take me around the bedlam of the main road, instead of directly through it. The town centre is thoroughly roped off for today’s parade.

I’m sitting at yet another red light, minding my own business and anticipating a switch to green, when I become aware of two upsetting things — first, that there is an inordinate amount of shouting, which in my opinion is wholly unnecessary on a Monday morning.

The second thing is that I am possibly being abducted. In my work car. Or held for ransom — it isn’t immediately clear. Someone is pulling open the passenger door and invading all notions of personal space I once held dear.

I lock eyes with my intruder — a young man, roughly my own age. Somewhat scruffy, shockingly out of breath. He’s holding a cardboard container of soup from Pret-a-Manger, panic tracking across the freckled expanse of his face.

My first thought is _, Oh, a criminal. How lovely._

(The second, less admissible one: _He’s far too handsome for that t-shirt. I wonder, does he own anything without holes?)_

 _“Drive!”_ he roars, slamming the door and ruining my day. I hear an ominous clip-clopping, accompanied by furious raised voices. “What are you waiting for, you numpty? _Go, go, go!”_

I lift a hand to point casually at the traffic light. “It’s red.”

(Also, numpty? _Excuse_ me?)

My startlingly impolite companion twists to stare over his shoulder. “There’s no time, they’re here! _Drive.”_

I _do_ drive, though certainly _not_ because this stranger is ordering me to — the lights have changed at last. I shift into second gear as we tootle through the junction, immediately getting stuck behind a slow-moving Royal Mail van.

”Fuck me,” the man says, all sweaty curls and righteous fury. “You’re a _terrible_ getaway driver.”

”Oh _that’s_ what’s happening, is it? I’m your local Monday getaway driver. Of course. Funny, it’s as if I woke this morning thinking I would merely be going to work.”

Speaking of work, my phone’s going off again — Wellbelove sending a cryptic string of _!!!!!!!!!._ I wonder what she’s so worked up about.

I pull into the other lane, checking in the rear-view mirror to see if we’re still being followed. It appears so — there’s a security guard on horseback trotting after us, shouting and waving a truncheon.

My panicked passenger sees me looking; he turns again and makes eye contact with the horse as we idle behind a Tesco home delivery van. He begins swearing, creative curses I’ve never heard before. He’s clearly a menace to well-meaning commuters — a pox upon language itself.

_And so very handsome. How annoying._

“Will you _please_ calm down?” I beg.

“They’re going to catch us! Can’t you drive a bit faster?”

I raise an eyebrow, for all the good it does me. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t pull up beside this road sweeper and toss you out into the gutter.”

He falls silent, choking on air. I snap at him to put his seat belt on and he does, still clutching his curious pot of soup. I glance over at the next inevitable red light — he’s going to spill it over the upholstery, if he’s not careful.

“Well?” I push. “At least tell me your name, man.”

He chews his lip, face stained gold and red. He’s ridiculous, and clearly a danger to society. I speed up to overtake a dustbin lorry as he slides further down in his seat.

“Simon. Simon Snow. There’s a parade today, yeah? Just got in a bit of trouble, that’s all. Nothing major. Keep your hair on.”

I hum to assure him I most certainly _will_ be keeping my hair on, swerving to avoid a fast-emerging tandem bicycle. _Honestly, what’s happening today?_

The clock on the dashboard tells me I’m already ten minutes late for work. Another ping from my phone — Niall in archives. _Are u watching the news m8??_

 _I’d say the news is happening_ to _me, actually._

“So you were at the mayor’s birthday parade?” I ask cautiously. The town’s unelected mayor (It’s inherited! Good for him!) is an oaf and a braggart — he throws a parade every year, in his own honour.

David Mage is a dire mayor, though my job requires me not to say as such out loud. I content myself with thinking it over and over again, in vicious mental italics.

_Prat prat prat prat prat._

“Yeah, I was there by accident,” Snow grunts. He hasn’t touched his soup, which is good — we undertake another jerking manoeuvre to move past a broken down milk float. “There was a barrier, but I jumped it easily enough — paid out my arse for this soup, but it was worth it. So bloody worth it.”

I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. My phone lights up again — at the next red light of many, I press at the screen. Wellbelove: _No rush. Boss will be late getting back._

“What’s the soup in aid of, Snow?” I ask slowly, beginning to suspect. Merely jumping a barrier wouldn’t earn him a personal escort. “Shouldn’t you be getting rid of the… _evidence?”_

He mumbles, looking down at his hands. “Cost a fortune, didn’t it? I was going to eat the rest, but I don’t have a spoon.” He sighs, checking over his shoulder again. I can’t hear hooves anymore — we’ve made our escape, as circuitous as it may have been. I expect the security guard took down my number plate, though it won’t tell him much. I drive a government vehicle — it can’t be traced to me personally. Not immediately.

“Did you buy the soup to _throw_ at someone, Snow?”

He sighs again. I can’t imagine there’s much air left in his body.

“Yeah,” he grunts, squirming. “It was impulsive, right? I was in Pret, and I saw the mayor’s float going by — he’s standing at the front, shouting crap into a microphone. You know what he’s like.”

I do. David Mage is insufferable. He can be all charm and artifice when it’s needed, but generally speaking he’s a neglectful, apathetic mayor. Rude to all, patient with none.

“So I just rolled with it, you know? The moment. Took my chance. I hopped the barrier and threw the soup in his face.”

I can’t help the gasp that escapes my lips, at the prospect of David Mage, dripping with Snow’s vindictive lunch. I catch a whiff as the container shifts — cream of mushroom, if I’m not mistaken. It’ll be all over his clothes, in his hair…

… _Simon Snow, are you my hero?_

Snow holds his hands up as if in surrender. “Don’t worry, it’s cold! It must’ve been on the shelf a while. I was going to heat it up at work.”

I wonder what on earth this man might do for a living. Do people make money running away from things? Could that be a potential career move for me? I _do_ hate my job. Or perhaps I’ll get into this getaway driver lark. Team up with Snow on future spontaneous soup missions.

“And the horse gave chase,” I prompt.

Snow’s face twists. We’re arriving at my workplace now — it occurs that I could have asked if he wanted to be dropped off somewhere, but it’s too late. We should be far enough from the parade to avoid suspicion.

“Yeah. Fucking _hate_ horses. It was good in a way, though — motivational. Nothing gets me running in the opposite direction like a massive, angry horse.”

I suppress a smile, waiting for him to realise where we are. Oh, it’s a drab enough building, to be sure — like any other office-infested structure in the city. Concrete, brick, peeling paint.

But the town flags flapping either side of the door _might_ give him pause.

“What…” he begins, fumbling with his seat belt. “Where are we?”

I wait for him to read the words, etched into metal on the wall.

_OFFICE OF THE MAYOR._

“Wait, y-you —” he splutters, reaching for the door. (He still hasn’t managed to undo his seat belt, which should slow him down.) “You work for _him!_ You…you’re —”

I produce my ID badge, resplendent on its government lanyard, and slip it over my neck. He stares in horror at my fuzzy photograph, next to the revelation that I am indeed _T. BASILTON GRIMM-PITCH, MAYORAL ASSISTANT._

“Oh fuck,” he mutters, gripping his soup like a lifebelt. “Fuck, fuck, flying _fuck.”_

“Now, Snow,” I begin. “I need you to remain calm.”

“Are you security, too?” he blurts. He’s got the lid off his soup, ready to fling — the car fills with the scent of fast-cooling mushroom. “Don’t come any closer! I’ll…I’ll soup you!”

I’ve no doubt he means it.

“I’m not a security guard, Snow. I’m a secretary. And…” I reach for my phone, sending a questioning text to Agatha in the office — she responds within moments. _Still at the parade. Some sort of trouble. Says he won’t be back until this afternoon._

Snow stares at me, eyes wide. There’s a touch of pink in his cheeks that’s worryingly appealing. “And _what?”_

“…I’ve got a key to his office. Don’t you want to find a use for the remaining soup? An unsuspecting drawer, perhaps? His new leather chair? There’s a back entrance to the building — no one will see.”

Snow’s evidently an opportunist, rather than a routine soup-tosser. But everybody has to start somewhere.

“What if we get caught?” he asks, swallowing. It’s a showy, delectable thing. “Aren’t there cameras? If you’re setting me up, just tell me. I’ll never jump in your car again — you’re a shit getaway driver, anyway.”

“Noted, Snow.”

“Seriously. Five miles an hour the whole way, like a granny.”

“There was traffic! And red lights!”

“I’ve seen more life in an England World Cup qualifying match, and that’s fucking saying something.”

I glower, though it does me no good. Snow finally conquers the seat belt clasp and sits with his fingers hovering over the handle, ready to depart.

“I won’t turn you in. I’d be in as much trouble as you are. I was, after all, the getaway driver.”

He bites his lip, lashes low over riled blue eyes.

“You hate him.”

_Yes. Yes I do. It’s a state of being, resenting David Mage._

“What about after?” he asks, pushing the lid down on his soup. My suit is safe — for now. “After we go in his office. What then?”

“Then we get away, Snow. What do you say?”

There’s an impish smile working its way over his lips. The smell of cold soup, of trouble to come. He climbs out of the car and I follow, switching off my work phone. I glance up at windows, though I doubt anyone’s watching the car park — they’ll all be glued to the local news channel, watching Mayor Mage take a souping to the face, in riveting slow motion.

In the background, as if from far away — another life, perhaps — I hear trumpets and fanfare. David will recover, in appearance if not quite in dignity.

“Fine,” Snow says at last, passing me the container. “But when it comes to the getaway, _I’ll_ drive this time.”

I agree immediately, irrevocably, inescapably.

_Yes, Snow — anything you say. Teach me how to run._

And I pass him the keys.


	16. II: Just a minute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherbert, sofa, so very drunk_

**SIMON**

Penny’s going to absolutely murder me.

That’s nothing new. At this late stage of our friendship, we’re on a fairly regular schedule of me messing things up, and her providing detailed descriptions of how and where she’s going to hide the body. She forgives me eventually, mainly because she doesn’t think she’d get away with buying that many bin bags without raising suspicion.

This time, though, I’m not sure there’s a way back. This time, she’s definitely going to go through with it.

I push desperately at the DVD player’s many buttons, pulling at cables. Nothing helps. The disc is stuck, nothing works, the screen is blank. I was trying to watch _New York Minute_ , a guilty pleasure of mine. (Although you know what, fuck it, I don’t feel _that_ guilty.) (They’re free and having fun in New York, _what’s not to like_.)

Penny doesn’t know I took it. I’m on an official DVD-borrowing ban because I always lose the discs, so I nicked it from her flat. She’ll notice it’s missing one day, and suspicion will naturally fall on me. (Because I’m naturally suspicious.)

And that’ll be it. RIP Simon Snow.

I sigh, verging on panic. _Just a minute_ , I think. _One more minute and it’ll work._

I’m doomed.

My cat twines between my feet in malevolent sympathy, then lets out a strangled sound and goes running into the kitchen. He meows and meows and meows. “Just a minute!” I shout, though the crying goes on.

I’m about to remind him that dinner’s in the past tense and he’s not getting any more snacks tonight, when I hear what all the fuss is about.

I put the DVD player back on the stand, let my fingers drag across useless buttons. Then I rock back on my heels and listen.

Clanging. Creaking. Cursing.

I call for my cat but he doesn’t appear. More disturbing sounds erupt from the kitchen, a person muttering and swearing. Something breaks, and then there’s a bang — the sound I’ve always imagined my own body might make, when Penny lets my corpse slip lifelessly to the floor.

_Someone’s breaking into my flat._ I stare at the broken DVD player. _Climbing through the kitchen window. Which seems pretty fucking amazing, given that I live on the second floor._

_Maybe it’s Penny. Maybe she knows what I’ve done._

I hear the voice again, sharp and deep. Definitely not Penny. I should probably go and deal with it before my cat does the job — he’s half-goblin and always up for a murder.

It’s not like I can let this man kill me. Penny’s first in line for that. (She called bagsy when we both turned eighteen.) I grab the closest thing to serve as self-defence — a bent spatula, which I was using to unsuccessfully pry open the DVD tray — and creep into the kitchen.

The cat yowls for attention.

_“Just a flipping minute,”_ I hiss.

It’s dark. Can’t see a fucking thing. I flip on the light, yelling incomprehensible sounds because I saw a bloke do it in a film once and it thoroughly baffled the villain, spatula held above my head.

But then I see him there on the floor, and realise I was wrong. I lower the spatula onto the counter.

_You’re not a villain._

I stand over him, looking down.

_You’re just really fucking drunk._

The intruder is lying on his back on the kitchen floor, black hair fanned around his head, slurring obscenities at the ceiling. His legs are kicked up along the cupboard door, and I can see where he must have fallen into the sink. (There’s water splashed everywhere, and the window’s wide open.) I lean across to close it, then look at him again.

He’s sloshed. Bladdered. Absolutely fucking legless, mate.

Also, a bit familiar. _Now, where have I seen you before?_

His eyes open far enough to take in the shape of me, then he’s calling out a name. “Dev! Devo, is that you? Devonshire Grimble-Ditch. Have I got the right door?”

“You haven’t got any doors,” I mutter, stooping to pull him up. My cat’s rubbing against his legs, getting white hair all over his fancy black jeans. “Sherbert, please — have some respect for the dead.”

“Sherbert,” the man mutters, almost toppling over as he bends to stroke my cat’s ears. “Ridiculous name. Lovely ears.”

I remember suddenly where I’ve seen him before — in the hallway, on his way upstairs. A couple of blokes live in the flat above mine — right pair of lads, always blaring Europop at mad hours of the night — and I’m thinking that’s who this Dev character must be.

I’m not going to think about how he got up here. He must’ve crawled up the wall like some wobbly gothic Spiderman. I suppose the drainpipe _is_ pretty sturdy; I’ve climbed it once or twice, when I’ve locked myself out…but not while drunk. The man must defy gravity.

I steer him into the living room, Sherbert doing his best to trip me up. He’s probably still angry at me about _New York Minute._ (We were going to watch it together.)

“The shelter called him Herbert but it didn’t seem right,” I explain, getting him to crash onto the sofa instead of the floor. (His nose is wonky enough already.)

He nods unsteadily, hand trailing over the cat as he paces by the sofa, purring with delight and ill-gotten attention. “Sherbert,” he says quietly.

The cat looks at me in triumph.

_Bloody traitor._

I go back into the kitchen to make sure the window’s locked. (One home invader is plenty, cheers.) I find what must be the bloke’s wallet, hanging out in my dish drainer. I take a look at his Tesco club card, wondering who he is, and there it is — Baz. His name’s Baz. I fill a clean glass with water and return to the living room.

He’s not on the sofa, where I left him. He’s on his knees in the middle of the carpet, face pressed against my cat’s neck.

“Oi!” I shout, doing a weird run-shuffle combination I’ll hopefully never do again. “Stop eating my cat!”

Baz looks up, eyes glassy, and I realise he wasn’t hurting Sherbert. (He _might_ have been sniffing him.) The cat rubs happily against his knees, meowing contentedly. I glare at the battle scars across my wrists and forearms, relics of all the times I’ve been foolish enough to go in for a cuddle.

_Fine,_ I think. _Sod you, then. There’ll be no tuna for_ you _tomorrow._

I tell Baz to get up because I’ve brought him a glass of water. “And I think your mate lives on the next floor up — want me to knock on the door?”

“He’s not my mate,” Baz says shakily, finding his feet. “He’s my detestable cous…oh, no. Just a minute.” For a second I think he’s going to throw up. Instead, he lets out a massive sneeze that sends Sherbert fleeing for cover, and sends him flying backwards towards the telly.

There’s no time to stop him. There’s nothing I can do.

Baz slips in his own debauchery and falls against the TV stand, knocking the DVD player off the edge. He lands on it with a sickening crunch.

I stand, frozen in horror, as he scrapes himself up again.

My life flashes before my eyes, and overall, it’s a bit shit.

_Fuck. No. Wait —_

“Sorry about that,” he manages, rubbing his head. Then, “What was I saying? Oh yes, he’s my cousin. And — oh my, were you watching _New York Minute?_ Love that film. What a journey.”

I almost the drop the water, that’s how excited I am. I slam the glass down on the coffee table and crash to my knees beside him.

“You did it!” I gasp, turning the disc over in my hands — there’s not a scratch to be seen. (Penny never needs to know. I can sneak it back into her flat when she’s at work.) (Now, if I could just find the case…) “Baz, you…you saved my life.”

He’s not a villain, I think again, more confidently. He’s my salvation.

Also, still extremely drunk.

Baz crawls clumsily to the sofa, pulling himself up. (Is that how he looked when he was scaling the wall outside?) (Strong. Graceful. Fucking ruthless mastery of a drainpipe.) “Would you mind if I close my eyes? Just for a minute. I’m not sure I can handle stairs.”

It’s the least I can do, after he fixed my DVD player. I place it on the stand and check to see if it’s working. I might be tempting fate a bit, but who cares — I put the disc on the tray and press play. There’s a click, a whir, and the screen comes to life.

When I turn around, I see Sherbert settling into Baz’s arms, demonic tail flicking happily.

“Arsehole,” I mutter, watching as his ears fold back. “Yeah, I’m talking to you.”

I grin when the menu pops up, then squeeze myself onto the sofa next to Baz’s feet. His eyes are closed, but I lift his chin and make him drink a bit of water before he nods off completely.

“Excellent film,” he mumbles, nestling his face into a sofa cushion as the opening scene unfolds. “Highly underrated.”

“I agree,” I tell him, folding my hands behind my head. Sherbert looks at me as if to say, _this sofa isn’t big enough for the three of us._

I try to give him the same evil glare he’s giving me.

“You can’t trust the first handsome drunken burglar you meet.”

I’m rewarded with a lazy, unimpressed blink, and then he’s tucking his nose under a paw.

_At least Sherbert likes him,_ I think, relaxing at last. _That’s a good sign. He tried to claw the postman’s eyes out, last time he got outside._

I sit back, get myself situated, and watch as Eugene Levy lights up the screen.

When Baz stretches his legs over my lap, I don’t push them off. I close my eyes and fall asleep right there, beside him. It feels familiar, somehow — like he hasn’t broken into my flat tonight for the first time, and flailed all over the furniture. He’s broken in before, maybe. He’s a regular visitor. That’s what it feels like.

_Just a minute,_ I think, as my eyes start to close. Baz shifts, sighing in his sleep. Sherbert kneads his shirt. _Just another minute._

* * *

When we wake just before ten, the telly’s still on, and the DVD’s gone back to the menu screen.

I ask Baz what he’s doing today, and he smiles at me. It all feels so familiar.

He reaches for the remote and presses play.


	17. II: How to fold a shirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _inspections, objections, business cards_

**SIMON**

I’ve never strangled a man with a sequined scarf before, but you know what, today might be the day.

He thinks it’s a joke. That’s what this is. He thinks it’s a joke that I work here, and that it’s my _specific duty_ to fold these shirts and keep them looking nice. He’s messing with me — deliberately getting in my head to see if he can stir things up a bit. Watch how far I can be pushed before I snap.

Before today I didn’t know what my limit was. Now I do — and this bloke with the swishy black hair and uncaring grey eyes is it. _He’s_ my limit. He manages to surpass it, even — every movement he makes is another tailor-made torture.

Maybe I won’t bother with the scarf. Maybe I’ll skip straight to clobbering him to death with a heavy-duty belt buckle. (Gareth in accessories won’t be pleased, but if I explain, he might let me off.) ( _Interdepartmental solidarity,_ Gaz.)

It’ll be his own fault, this brooding, mysterious man with his silky shirt and gloomy face. You really can’t hold me responsible at all.

If he would just stop fucking _unfolding_ everything, it’d be alright. But he’s hovering around the shop like a sartorial spectre, messing up all my hard work and leaving it undone.

It’s not on. It ain’t right. I don’t have to take this.

I’m going to give this bloke a piece of my mind.

I corner him by the polo shirts. He’s rubbing his fingers across the collars — I can’t tell from here if he’s leaving grease stains, so I sneak a bit closer. I creep up behind him and peer through a rack of discount waistcoats, watching as he leans in and inhales the display. (What. The. Fuck.)

If he knew how hard I worked at folding those shirts, maybe he wouldn’t be this way. He’d rethink his life choices…tell himself, _Oh, here’s a man who cares about his work. The art of folding shirts. Bet he puts in hours of practice at home every night!_

(I do. My shirts at home are folded to perfection.) (Penny bought me an ironing board for Christmas for a laugh, but I fucking love it. She insists on calling me _the creaseless wonder._ )

Maybe he thinks he’s too good for a place like this. He’s got a pair of designer sunglasses on his head, and the sort of look on his face that says _I’m expensive and I know it._ He might think he’s better than these shirts, than _me,_ but he can’t disrespect the very fabric of my being. I won’t let him.

He winds his long, elegant fingers inside a baby blue button-down, pulls it inside out to inspect the laundry tag, then leaves it in a heap on top of the vests.

That’s it. The final fucking straw. Camels’ backs, broken all over the place.

I’m going to pick him apart, stitch by stitch.

“Oi, you! Depressed Noel Fielding!”

Alright, so I could’ve been a _bit_ more tactful about it. (Tactical? Tacit?) But I get his attention — he looks up from a pile of cashmere jumpers and almost jumps out of his skin. Then his face relaxes into a smarmy grin, and even though I didn’t think it was possible, I want to punch him even more than I did five minutes ago.

“Can I help you?” he asks, and his voice is like hot tea after you’ve been out in the cold. Or something.

“Yeah,” I shout, gathering up the jumpers he’s ruined and carefully folding them back into a neat pile. “You can keep your hands off my merchandise, alright?”

His eyes drag me slowly, from head to toe and back again, and it feels like every inch of me is on fire. Like I’m flammable and he’s the prick with the lighter fluid, watching me burn.

“I know you’ve been watching me.” He’s smirking, eyebrow curving upwards like an evil coat hanger. “Not subtle, are you? You’ve been following me around the shop. _Stalking_ me.”

“Don’t fucking flatter yourself,” I mutter.

He continues looking at me like he’s starving and I’m a particularly tasty bit of venison, then slips a hand inside his coat. He pulls out a laminated badge, which he waves in my face while saying, “I’m from corporate — Visual Merchandising Standards Team.”

I see his name there, embossed in red: B A Z G R I M M - P I T C H.

I step back, horrified. “Corporate? What the…but no one warned us you were coming!”

“Yes, well, that would rather defeat the object of an inspection, wouldn’t it? If you knew we were coming, everything would be falsified.” He stops messing with a t-shirt — 100% cotton, 100% better than he deserves — to look me in the eye. “I want the real deal, Snow. The true experience of browsing your wares.”

That _stare_. Fuck me. It’s intense and it’s cruel, and I can’t look away.

I cover my name badge with a hand, even though it’s obviously too late. He knows my name and he’s prepared to use it against me. “So this is what you do for a living, is it? Visit people’s shops and mess up their hard work?”

He flicks his hair out of his eyes and looks me over again. Then he glances at the messy pile of shirts and holds out a hand.

“By all means, Snow — don’t let me keep you from your labour.” He clicks his tongue, and I’m half-expecting him to snap his fingers next. (Who died and made him king of the clothing department?) (He’s proper fucking bossy and I _don’t_ like it.) “Fold them, then. Show me how it’s done.”

I push past him, calling him various unprintable names. I don’t care if he’s from corporate and I’m supposed to be polite — he’s a tosser. Rude and arrogant, and you know what, I don’t _care_ what he thinks of me — I saw that shirt he’s wearing on the sale rack last year, and I know for a _fact_ it’s 60% polyester.

I fold the shirts back to how they were, the way they _should_ be. I fold them for myself and for the display, and definitely _not_ because Corporate Pitch over here is watching me keenly. His eyes follow my arms, my wrists, my hands, mouth falling opening as my fingers dip inside the hemline…

(Is it just me or is it getting hot in here?)

…when I’m done, the shirts are a work of art once more. Maybe even my masterpiece. I step back, fold my arms, and bask in the glow of a job well done.

“Splendid, Snow.”

Baz sounds like he’s struggling with something. (Maybe I blew him away when I handled those sleeves.) I smooth my palm over the nearest pile and wait for his verdict. (Or praise. Adulation. Whatever he’s willing to provide.)

He stares at me, then bites his lip.

I don’t know why, but I take a step towards him and lower my voice. “Do you need me to fold something else for you, Baz? A nice pair of jeans, maybe — or a cardigan. We’ve got some _lovely_ cardigans on the next floor down.”

He swallows, clever response lost somewhere between those lowering lashes and bitten lip, and points towards the back of the shop.

“If you can’t control yourself, Snow, we’ll have to take this off the shop floor.”

I don’t usually encourage strange men to follow me into the staff area, but Baz _is_ from corporate, and he seems to be having a self-control problem of his own. So I nod once — dead cool, like they do on TV — and turn away. As we go I take inventory of the displays I’ll have to fix when he’s finished his inspection, feeling heat rise along the back of my neck. _He’s even been ransacking my boxer shorts. The man’s a menace!_

Once we’re through the door I push him into a storeroom, pinning him against the wall with my arm.

“You’ve been pissing me off all day, strolling about like you own the place!”

“Temper, temper,” he taunts, though he doesn’t push me off. “Your branch won’t earn a good score, you know. The assistants are _horribly_ violent. And as for the displays…”

_If you say one fucking word about my folding, I swear to god —_

“…well, the folding is amateur at best.”

I let him go and back up to get a good look. _Not a crease on him. Let’s change that._

Then I tackle him into the nearest shelving rack.

Baz fights back, though to be honest, his heart’s not completely in it — in all the confusion, he mainly succeeds in getting my shirt untucked. I try to headbutt him but he dodges it — and then for some unknown reason I think a bite’s a good idea, so I go for it. Except now I’m _kissing_ him instead, and then before I can do anything about it _he’s_ kissing _me,_ and then, well. We’re full on snogging in the storeroom.

Baz tastes like unreturned emails and failed evaluations. Like corporate sabotage, sweat and scrutiny, all rolled into one.

(I don’t hate it.)

He pushes me off, but only long enough to get my tie undone, followed by the first three buttons on my shirt. He says he wants to see if it looks any less tragic on the floor, and I ask if he’s going to make me fold it for him.

“Not yet,” he says into my mouth. I pull his laminated badge out of his coat pocket and toss it over my shoulder. “Later, Snow. _Later.”_

* * *

Later — not _that_ much later, two weeks at the most — our branch gets a letter from corporate. It’s signed by _T. B. Grimm-Pitch_ and gives our shop top marks in all departments. Under the signature, which is about as loopy and over the top as I would’ve expected, there’s a note:

_The Watford branch earns top marks for visual merchandising standards._

My manager says I can pick the music we play in the shop all day, and I go about my business, folding and tidying everything I can get my hands on. When I have to go into the storeroom to fetch more embroidered handkerchiefs, there’s a spring in my step.

As I reach into one of the boxes, something shiny catches my eye.

Laminated plastic, a blurry photo and a name in red. _Baz’s ID card._

I flip it over and read the words on the back: _If found, please return to Corporate._ I recognise the string of numbers underneath — it’s head office’s number, followed by an unknown extension.

* * *

Later, I eat my lunch in the staff room and stare at my phone.

* * *

Later, I call corporate and ask to speak to a man about an inspection.


End file.
